


The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, M/M, McLennon, McLennon Big Bang 2018, NO ONE DIES IN THIS FIC I PROMISE, Strong Language, consensual sexual situations, mentions of period-typical homophobia and racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-16 21:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14819592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: Paul knows that the world turns and people change, but the last time he saw Paris, things were so very different.The Beatles in Paris, 1964, when Paul wrote "Can't Buy Me Love" in the suite he shared with John and a piano.





	1. Prologue - 9 October, 1961

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Savageandwise for cheering this story along. I hope it lives up to your expectations.
> 
> Heaps of gratitude to my beta-from-another-fandom who wishes to remain anonymous. 
> 
> ***

THE LAST TIME I SAW PARIS

  


_A lady known as Paris, romantic and charming_  
_Has left her old companions and faded from view._  
_Lonely men with lonely eyes are seeking her in vain._  
_Her streets are where they were, but there's no sign of her._  
_She has left the Seine._  
  
_The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay._  
_I heard the laughter of her heart in every street café._  
_The last time I saw Paris, her trees were dressed for spring._  
_And lovers walked beneath those trees and birds found songs to sing._  
_I dodged the same old taxicabs that I had dodged for years,_  
_The chorus of their squeaky horns was music to my ears._  
_The last time I saw Paris, her heart was warm and gay._  
_No matter how they change her, I'll remember her that way._  
  
_I'll think of happy hours, and people who shared them:_  
_Old women, selling flowers, in markets at dawn._  
_Children who applauded Punch and Judy in the park,_  
_And those who danced at night and kept our Paris bright_  
_'Til the town went dark._

_\--Jerome Kern/Oscar Hammerstein, 1940_

 

The City of Light put on its best dawn show for the two young men who lay in a tangled, sticky heap on their tiny bed in a cheap _pension._

It was a pity that only one was awake to enjoy it. 

Paul, who appreciated all beautiful things, loved early-morning Paris. He loved the butterscotch sunshine pouring into the room through the half-opened window. He loved the sounds of the city as it awakened, the cacophany of tooting horns mixed with the melodic calls of street vendors. He loved the way that the rooftops went from lilac to pink to russet as the sun rose in a perfectly blue sky. 

Mostly, though, he loved the boy who slept soundly at his side. John was as beautiful as all of Paris, all of Europe, all the world combined. John was poetry and music. He was fine wine. 

He was snoring softly. With a quiet, fond huff, Paul shifted his shoulder slightly so John's head would rest at a different angle. Soon he was silent again, a little smile in the corner of his beautiful, beautiful mouth. 

Paul loved John's mouth. Not just the singing, or the wit, but the way it fell open with a little cry when Paul made him come. Twice last night, Paul thought with an indulgent smirk. Then he remembered seeing that mouth doing its magic on him and colour dawned in his cheeks. 

John mumbled something and stirred as his eyes slowly began to flick open. He squinted short-sightedly upwards and raised a languid hand to cup Paul's cheek. 

"Happy birthday to you," Paul sang. He leaned over to give John a kiss on the nose, which would have been unthinkable just two days earlier. 

But this was Paris. 

"Mmmm. Paulie," John whispered as he snuggled into Paul's side, his mouth pressing against the swell of Paul's collarbone. He'd left a mark there last night. 

Paul nudged him. "Oi! It's your twenty-first today - how d'you want to spend it?" 

John's lips curved into a smile and he planted a kiss on Paul's chest. 

"In bed," he replied as he wrapped his arms around Paul and rolled him over into a shaft of golden Parisian sunlight.


	2. 14 January, 1964

Bloody hell. 

They didn't have to say it aloud. Paul could hear the phrase in the way George dropped his bag heavily to the floor, in the shocked wideness of Brian's eyes, and in the hunched, determined set of John's shoulders. 

Bloody hell. 

London Airport was a screaming madhouse. Scores of teenagers - mostly girls, if Paul let himself be honest - swarmed the sidewalk and tried pushing through to the ticket counters. There weren't enough police at the airport to hold back the hordes. There might not have been enough police in all of London, for that matter. 

Bloody FUCKING hell. 

Mal was a few seconds behind, swatting away the most persistent of the shriekers with his huge hands. When he closed the glass door the screams were only scarcely muted. "All right, lads? Brian?" 

Swallowing loudly, Brian nodded and wiped a curl from his forehead. Sweat was beading there despite the chilly temperature. John, busily arranging chairs to form a makeshift cot, didn't respond. George grunted something unintelligible and lit a cigarette. 

So it was up to him, Paul realized. "Yeah, we're okay. Good thing Ringo's not here; I don't think all four of us would've been able to get through that mob." 

"Nah. You know I'll do anything to keep you safe." 

"Ta, Mal," George said, blinking through a haze of smoke. He lit another cigarette off the end of his own and held it out to Mal. Paul thought he could see a little tremor in George's fingers. 

Not surprising. Fuck it all, they were exhausted. Two nights ago they'd been on stage at the London Palladium, yesterday had been a whirlwind of packing and press conferences, and now they were heading to Paris. Ringo, stuck in the Liverpool fog, had an extra day at home. Paul felt a pang of envy. 

Brian was the first to recover his wits. He stood up with his arms folded across his chest. "I'm sorry it was such chaos, boys. We got through Customs all right on this end - just make sure you know where your passports are at all times and be sure to stay together." 

The silence that followed was heavy with weariness. Paul cleared his throat, eager to break the unnatural state of quiet. "What's waiting for us in Paris?" 

"Besides the fucking guillotine?" John muttered, eyes firmly closed. 

"There's press, of course, aside from Derek and the usual fellows traveling with us," Brian began, followed by a chorus of loud groans. "Of course there'll be some fans, but the number's being strictly limited. It won't be anything like what we just saw." He brightened as he started speaking again. "You'll love the hotel I booked - the George V, finest in all Paris."

"Stayed there already," John said in an affectedly posh, bored tone. "With Cyn, on the post-baby honeymoon and all." 

It took all his willpower for Paul to keep his face neutral. He'd been so excited to return to "their" city that he could hardly contain himself. The group had been so busy that general conversation was impossible, so Paul had let out his joyous energy on stage night after night, pouring himself into the music he and John had created. 

What was keeping John so subdued, other than the exhaustion they all felt? 

Only a few moments later their flight was announced on the tannoy. Their little group marched single-file onto the tarmac and up the stairs. The stewardesses who greeted them were so pretty that even George woke up enough to take notice.

Paul boarded first and took his usual bulkhead seat on the starboard side so his writing hand would be free. Despite Brian's care in booking the entire First Class cabin so they could all spread out, Paul and John always sat side by side, hunched over a notebook. Paul looked up expectantly as John walked down the aisle, his welcoming smile going stiff and stale when John brushed past him without a word and headed to the back of the cabin. 

George, entering just behind John, raised an eyebrow at Paul - _anything gone wrong, here?_ \- the unspoken question obvious in his quizzical, concerned expression. Paul merely shrugged and turned toward the window to hide the panicky rush of blood to his face. 

Maybe they were all just too tired to function normally, Paul told himself as he tried to smile charmingly for the stewardess who wanted a photo "for her roommate." He declined food and drink, choosing instead to lean against the window and let the humming engines lull him to sleep. 

Fragments of two voices tugged insistently at the edges of Paul's hearing. 

"...why...such a tosser?" George.  
"...of your business...." John.  
"...bite...head off..."  
"All right, all right..." 

Paul curled up toward the window, pressing his ear to the glass so the engines would be louder than the voices. He was half-asleep when he felt something land softly on his head. He tried to shake it off without moving enough to wake himself up, but ended up needing to grab the offending item with his hand. It was a pack of cigarettes. 

"To replace the ones I cadged from you yesterday." 

Paul opened one eye and saw John crouching next to his seat. His tie was off and his glasses were on top of his head. 

"Who'd you cadge these from?" Paul asked, trying to adjust his tone midway between nonchalant and amused. 

"Derek." 

Paul shook out two cigarettes and handed one to John. "So," he said evenly as he dug in his pocket for a lighter, "to what do I owe the honour of this visit, Mr. Lennon?" He was glad of the opportunity to stare into the flame as he lit his cigarette so that he didn't have to try and read the expression in John's eyes. But before he could hand the lighter over, John placed his hand on Paul's wrist, steadying it as he lit his own cigarette. The touch sent an electric shock through Paul's entire body and made him shudder. 

"Do I need an engraved invitation to sit beside me own writing partner?" The note of aggrieved archness in John's question lessened the tense ache between Paul's eyebrows. 

Paul snorted. "Sit down, git." He scooted over to give John enough room to get settled, then leaned back and pulled in a lungful of smoke. It was almost enough to keep him calm. Almost. 

Fidgeting with his seat belt, John started to speak. "Brian's put us together in a suite." Paul felt himself smiling inanely but when he looked over at John, he saw no answering grin, no softness in the keen, dark eyes. "To work. We've six songs to write for the film, plus a couple more for Billy J. and that lot. It's nose to the grindstone, son."

Swallowing the leaden lump of disappointment in his throat, Paul nodded. "Bit tricky with just guitars," he said. He left the door open for John to say something about it being like the old days. 

"Brian got us a piano," was what he said instead. 

Paul let his gaze flick upwards from John's stubborn chin to his averted eyes. As always, John was a living contradiction, and today Paul was simply too tired to unravel all the various threads that wove a Lennon mood. 

"That'd be fine," he said. Faking a yawn, he turned away and rested his head against the cool glass of the window. There was a shift in the weight next to him as John stood up and left. Paul could hear the _sotto-voce_ coos of the stewardesses as they gently tucked a blanket around him, could smell the perfumed lotion on their hands.

He would rather have to put up with the stench of unwashed Lennon than any of these perfumed beauties. 

He wondered what the French word for 'fucked' might be. 

***

Le Bourget Airport was only slightly less of a madhouse than London had been. 

"I used to think that 'French press' referred to coffee, not this lot," Mal complained as he hefted his bulk between two journalists with enormous cameras. The flashes were blinding, leaving Paul with red images of the back of George's head every time they went off. 

"Should we have worn our leathers for the fans, then?" George deadpanned through gritted teeth. He was making his way through the crowd with difficulty. They had less trouble with girls, who tended to shriek and then shrink away, but these boys were another matter altogether. They were quieter, which was safer for their eardrums, but they were an insistent, immovable wall. 

John shoved forward with his guitar case, head lowered, mowing over any stray reporters or fans. He was walking faster than the rest, even bypassing Mal, until all Paul could see was the tip of his cap. 

"Head for the two taxis where the _gendarme_ are standing!" Brian shouted over the noise. 

Paul and George followed in Mal's wake and found themselves seated side by side in the back of a taxi. Brian occupied the front seat, looking back anxiously to make sure John and Mal were right behind them. 

"It won't take too long," he assured them, or possibly himself. "There's not much going on tonight if you would like to get some rest." 

"I'd really like to stretch my legs," groused George. "Any chance of a walkabout?"

"I'll see what I can do. It'd be best if you three were together."

Of course it would. They might only be a three-headed monster until Ringo got in tomorrow, but wrangling even three Beatles had to be an enormous task. 

"That okay?" Paul asked George. 

George's penetrating gaze held Paul's for a moment. Paul arched his eyebrows and tipped his head to the side. _Please._

The answering nod was accompanied by a slight bump of George's shoulder against Paul's. So many nonverbal signals. No wonder they sometimes got crossed. 

The taxi pulled up in front of a lovely old hotel. Before Paul could articulate how pleased he was, an army of bellhops surrounded them and began opening doors and piling luggage onto carts. Brian swept Paul and George into an elevator along with a young concierge who was trying, without much success, to pretend that he wasn't dizzy with excitement to be next to them. 

"Your suites are opposite one another. I'm in the one on the end, and Neil and Mal will be on George's right. Let's get settled for a bit, then perhaps we can let you wander along the _Champs-Élysées_."

"Ta, Brian." Paul took the key from the concierge and opened the door. 

Well. This was nice. 

The living area had an old parquet floor with area rugs, comfortable-looking furniture, and enough windows to let in what John would call "good light." There was a short corridor with two doors on opposite sides - presumably the two bedrooms - and at the end was a large bathroom. 

It was a charming suite, but Paul's attention immediately went to the upright piano. He lifted the fallboard, chuckling that it was a Knight piano from England, and played a few chords. 

"Not bad," he said to himself. He lowered himself to the bench, grimacing slightly at the ache in his back from being twisted in an airplane seat, then stretched his arms in front of him, fingers interlaced, until each knuckle popped in turn. 

It was a G Minor kind of day, he thought as he ran a couple of chord progressions across the keys. He wasn't composing, just listening to the rise and fall of the notes, but he was concentrating hard enough that John's entrance made him jump.

"We've got to do six," John said as he dropped his suitcase with a heavy thud. His guitar fared better, placed carefully on the loveseat next to Paul's bass. "Plus one each for...for..." 

"Tommy Quickly," Paul filled in. "And another for Billy J." He didn't look up, didn't want to know how bad John's mood might be. 

If he'd thought a return to Paris would be moonlight and champagne, clearly he had set himself up for disappointment. 

John joined him on the piano bench and played a few treble notes. "Not bad, this." 

Something about having John at his right hand felt good, even if it would be for a workaday event like churning out a song or two. The pinched feeling behind Paul's eyes began to lessen as he and John played and tossed ideas back and forth. 

They were beginning to get into a groove when the door opened and George poked his head in. His eyes widened when he saw John and Paul working side by side, but he quickly gathered his wits. "Some of the journos know their way about; they'll show us around if we let 'em take a few pictures. How about it- want to get out for a bit of air?" 

Paul couldn't help glancing at John, who was looking down at his hands. "Might be a good idea," Paul said as offhandedly as he could manage. 

John's shoulders tightened but he nodded as he got up and reached for his jacket and cap. Paul tried to keep his delight to himself, making sure to divide his attention evenly between his two friends, but as he spotted familiar sights he couldn't help asking if John remembered this one, or if he knew the name of that one. 

Yes, John would say, or no, or he'd just shrug and take a few steps ahead. They all had their brand-new cameras, and they took photos of The Sights and one another, knowing that the crowd of journalists expected nothing less. They posed with some street artists, sat at a tiny round table and had sodas, and other things expected of even the most famous tourists, but all the while John seemed distant, his replies mechanical and uninterested. 

"Christ, it's like watching my parents glare at each other when they're having a row," George commented in a low, quiet voice as John turned his back on Paul. 

"Puttin' film in the camera, need to keep a shadow on it," John answered tartly. He swung the camera in front of his face and started taking pictures of the other two, then turned to one of the journalists and gave a huge, fake grin. 

Paul's spirits flagged. This wasn't what he'd hoped for, not even faintly, and if they were going to be stuck like this for the next few weeks... 

George tapped him on the shoulder. "You in there, Paulie?" he asked as he leaned closer. He whispered, "Want me to talk to him?" 

Paul just shook his head. "Won't make it better - probably make it worse. But thanks." 

Their sojourn complete - and a complete failure as far as Paul was concerned - they walked briskly back to the hotel, where Brian was waiting for them. "Got a couple of people you need to meet, boys, won't take long." 

"Send Paul," John grumbled. "I'm knackered." 

"They're in your room, John. Just a few minutes, I promise. I've had dinner brought up - I know you must be famished by now." 

Paul's stomach felt full of acid, but he forced a smile on his face as Brian ushered them into the suite. 

"...from the French label, Odeon." 

Crap. Paul hadn't listened to the name. He forced himself to pay attention to the second man, who was the director of the Olympia Theatre in Paris. Bruno Coquatrix - who the fuck named these people? 

He was forcing a smile and pushing food around on his plate when he felt John's breath just behind his ear. "What's the name of the record guy?" 

"I didn't catch it," he answered, breathing in the unexpected scent of Coke and whatever savoury dishes John had been sampling. 

"We'll have to call him Monsieur Odeon, I suppose." John winked at Paul then walked toward the window. 

What the hell was John doing? 

Paul was used to the mercurial temperament that made John so fascinating even when he was being infuriating. Usually he knew what caused the mood shifts, could even predict them, but right now John was just giving him a headache. 

George had stopped eating and was watching John stare out of the window, leaving Paul and Brian to be the hosts for this impromptu get-together. Paul tried to concentrate on the guests, nodding when there was a pause and occasionally making what he hoped was a relevant comment. He was tired and frustrated, a terrible combination, and he tried to telegraph his distress to Brian. 

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of French-accented small talk, Brian said his farewells and led his guests out of the suite. As he went out, Derek Taylor bounded in and gave each of them a short, firm hug. 

"If you're up to it, I'm going out to a place called Club Eve, supposed to have good booze and better-than-average women. You want to come along?"

John sat down at the piano. "Can't, son. Got to earn our daily _pain_." He glanced over his shoulder. "You can go if you want, Paul."

That wasn't what he wanted to hear. He wasn't sure what he should do - go out and be a pain in their asses, or stay with John and get a few more arrows in his heart.

Torn, Paul looked at his feet for a moment before replying. "Some other night, lads. I'm barely up for a shower and bed." 

George got to his feet with such evident relief that it almost made Paul smile. Poor George, stuck in the middle of Stroppy John and Soppy Paul - no wonder he was keen to make an escape. 

After exchanging a few lukewarm goodnights, Paul and John were alone in the suite. John loosened his tie and fumbled around in his pockets. "Got your notebook handy?" he asked Paul without looking at him.

Paul pulled it out of his case and handed it over to John. "If you don't need the loo, then I really do want to have a wash." 

"Go ahead. I've got something started here," John said absently as he started scribbling disorderly chord symbols in Paul's tidy notebook. 

Paul walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot as he could endure, undressed, then got under the spray and let the steamy water sluice away the grime from a day's worth of travel. He opened and sniffed at the bottle of shampoo. The slight herbal smell eased away some of his tension, fragrant steam filling his nostrils as he poured some on himself worked the lather over his head. He began to hum, stopping abruptly when he realized that the tune was "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair." 

If only he could, he thought as he rinsed the soap away and started lathering his body. He scrubbed at himself with a washcloth until his skin was nearly scarlet. After a few minutes he realized that he was in danger of scalding himself, and with a tired sigh he turned off the water and reached for a towel. 

Even with the door closed Paul could hear the piano. He'd know John's playing anywhere, the little arpeggiated figures that always flowed from his right hand while his left kept up a simple, supportive bass line. It was Paul's job to fill that part in, to make the notes dance as they connected melody and rhythm. 

Still a bit damp from the shower, Paul stepped into his pyjama bottoms and slung a fresh towel over his shoulders to sop up the water dripping from his hair. He padded into the sitting room and watched in silence as John played a few bars, went back to change something, then tried again. 

"That's really good," Paul said. His voice sounded sticky, as if he were coming down with a cold, and he saw the little smirk that traveled across John's mouth at the sound. 

"Half of one down, five-and-a-half to go," John said blandly, not looking away from the keyboard. He was mostly undressed now, shirtless, trousers low and snug on his hips. His glasses were precariously close to the end of his nose. 

Paul was too tired to be prudent. He reached out gently and took John's glasses off. "Why, Miss Jones, you're beautiful," he mock-gasped. 

John blinked rapidly, the way he always did in the first moments when he was left half-blind without his glasses. His eyes were dark beneath the full lashes, his expression carefully dispassionate. "What the fuck do you need, Paul?" he said in a low, tired voice. 

What did he need? His head spun from the evening's drink, the hot shower, and the vague stirrings of longing that had been fizzing like champagne bubbles in his bloodstream all day. "I...that is...when we were here..." 

Suddenly John's hand was around his wrist, holding tightly enough to hurt. When Paul opened his mouth to protest, John scrambled to his feet and tugged at him. Paul followed, heart in his throat, and he ended up being pushed onto his own bed with John looming over him. 

"Johnny..." 

John shook his head. Without a word, without even a sound, he put both hands at Paul's hips and yanked his pyjamas downward. 

Paul was already hard. He'd been on the verge all day. Now, as he lay pressed against the headboard, his heart began thrumming as he saw his cock disappear into John's mouth. 

The heat and suction made him squirm. John planted his hands on Paul's upper thigh and hip to hold him still. He was strong, strong enough to keep Paul from bucking up the way his whole body was begging him to, and all Paul could do was thrash his head from side to side, taking in small, harsh gasps of air. 

"John, baby, that's amazing..." 

John grunted, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure all the way to his balls. Paul, relieved to get any response from John after the sulky silence of the day's journey, decided to praise him in hopes of clearing away whatever funk was hanging over them. 

He was just barely able to reach the top of John's head. He patted and stroked, his fingers trembling the way they used to after he'd practiced for too many hours, the way they still did when John gave him that LOOK onstage. "Yeah, just like that...you're so good...ohhh, John, Johnny, yes, yes..." 

John did the thing with his tongue that made Paul swear it was hinged differently to other people's tongues, and Paul saw flashes of light behind his tightly closed eyelids. 

"What you do to me," Paul murmured. He forced his eyes open but all he could see was the very top of John's head bobbing in sync with Paul's racing pulse. He felt the spasms starting low in his body and he threw his head back, keening. 

"Please, Johnny, please!" 

There had been plenty of moments like this one where John would lift his head, his smiling lips glistening, and ask what Paul wanted. Not this time; John simply kept tonguing and sucking. 

"Yeah, Johnny, I'm gonna come, baby..." He couldn't keep his eyes open any longer and when he squeezed them shut so hard that tears threatened to leak out, the world around him spun and turned silver for a dazzling instant before he felt the hot rush travel from his cock to John's mouth, and it was all over. 

Gasping and panting, Paul blinked and saw John wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes lowered and unreadable. Paul's hands shook as he reached out, groping at the fastenings of John's trousers, but John stood up before Paul could even undo the button. 

"Christ, Macca," he said, his tone dripping with disdain, "you make noises like a girl." He continued in an insulting falsetto. "'Oh, Johnny, I'm coming!'" Before Paul could catch his breath enough to protest, John gestured toward his own crotch. "Puts me right off, it does." 

"What...?" 

Paul's heart, already beating dangerously fast, began an irregular, painful rhythm. He watched helplessly as John stalked out of the room. 

No. 

Paul pushed himself to the edge of the bed, rising on unsteady legs and stepping awkwardly out of his pyjamas. Naked, reeling in equal measure from orgasm and heartbreak, he stumbled toward John's bedroom only to hear the sound of John locking the door.


	3. 15 January, 1964

Paul had no idea what time it was when the phone began to ring. He fumbled with the objects on the unfamiliar nightstand until he grasped the receiver. His voice sounded faint even to his own ears as he said hello. 

"Time to get up, Paulie." Mal. "Breakfast meeting in Brian's suite, remember? John's already here." 

John.

Fuck. 

Mal kept talking. "George is on his way. See you in ten or fifteen?" 

"Right. Ta, Mal." 

Paul let the receiver drop from his fingers. He sat upright, trying to remember how long he had lain awake after the disastrous tryst the night before. Hours, certainly. He had shed some tears - his sinuses felt gummy and his throat was sore - and the way his legs were tangled in the sheets implied that what little sleep he'd gotten had been fitful. 

At least, he thought as he shifted to dangle his feet off the edge of the bed, he wouldn't have to bump into John in the loo. 

He ran the tap until steam rose from the little basin. Shaving was a chore he hated even on his best days, but having to confront his weary visage in the mirror made him resent every stroke of the razor against his skin. Making a mental note to send Mal out for eye drops, Paul finished cleaning himself up and splashed cold water over his face before changing into the day's suit and tie. 

Uniformed _gendarmes_ nodded cordially as he walked down the corridor to Brian's suite. He'd have to face John, of course, but at least they wouldn't be alone. 

Brian, John, and George were seated around the oval dining table. Paul forced himself to put on his best public-relations smile and greet each of them. Brian, whose mouth was full of toast, just waved. George smiled broadly and pulled out a chair for Paul. "They tried bringing a Continental breakfast but Brian had 'em get us the full English. It's not half bad." 

John made no response whatsoever. He was cutting his sausage into small, even pieces, his full attention on the mundane task. The smell wafted over to Paul and made him feel queasy. 

"Just tea for me, I think," he said as evenly as he could manage. Brian poured a cup for him and Paul drank it black, letting the hot liquid clear some of the sludge from his throat. 

"No milk?" George asked, waving the little porcelain jug in Paul's direction. 

"Not today. Throat's a little sore." 

John snorted. 

Brian darted a glance at each of them, frowning. "Well. Ringo and Neil will get in late this afternoon, which will give us just enough time to get to the show. Tonight's at the Cyrano, then we move to the Olympia for the rest of the trip." 

Paul tried to look interested. 

Tried not to look at John. 

"What's the setlist?" George asked. He leaned over and whispered to Paul, "You should eat something." 

"Ta, Louise," Paul whispered back. He reached for the lid covering the eggs just as John did the same, and when their hands touched they both jumped back as if the metal had electrocuted them. 

Shaking his head, Brian scooped out eggs and plunked them down on John's plate and then Paul's while he spoke. "From Me to You, Roll Over Beethoven, She Loves You, This Boy, Boys, I Want to Hold Your Hand, Twist and Shout, and Long Tall Sally." 

"Ah, so Ringo and I each get one," George remarked drily. Paul studied him, unable to read his face. He used to know George so well. 

But then, he thought he knew John, and look how that was turning out. 

"We'll need to head over early," Brian continued. "Say hello to the opening acts, get a few photographs, that sort of thing. The concert itself starts at nine." 

"What's the venue like?" Mal inquired as he buttered a piece of toast. "Plugs and the like - do we need adapters or something?" 

Paul and George stopped eating. Even John seemed to be paying attention, at last. What if their equipment couldn't be plugged in? What would they have to do if--? 

Unconcerned, Brian waved his hand in front of his face. "That's all taken care of, nothing to worry about." He smiled fondly. "Boys, please don't fret. This should be quite straightforward." 

Paul saw a lessening of the furrow between George's eyebrows. Good. If George felt satisfied, then it would all work out. 

Everyone settled down to eat in silence. Paul managed to swallow a few forkfuls of eggs, mostly to keep George happy, but his mind was as foggy as the weather that had kept Ringo behind in Liverpool. He didn't even hear the knock on the door or notice that Mal got up to answer. Only when a large box of chocolates ended up in front of him did he look up and find Mal grinning down at him. 

"What's all this?" Paul asked. 

"There's a note," Mal said, handing it to Brian, who chuckled as he opened it. 

"Ah - we have a reply to your request to meet Brigitte Bardot." John snapped to attention at the mention of his favourite _femme fatale_. "I'm afraid the answer is no, lads. Evidently the lady is in Brazil at the moment." 

"Where the nuts come from," John muttered. He snatched the note from Brian's hands and squinted at it, trying to read without his glasses on. "They hope the sweets will make up for her, says..." he held the paper closer. "I can't read the signature."

George was already opening the box. The scent of dark chocolate almost made Paul retch, and he pushed his chair back from the table as Brian explained that the sender was the man they had met last night, from the Odeon record label. 

Paul, intent on not throwing up, didn't hear the name. 

Monsieur Odeon it would have to be, still. 

"Speaking of records," Brian added after casting a worried glance at Paul, "how's the song-writing coming along?" 

"We just got here," complained John. He sniffed a piece of chocolate and popped it into his mouth. "Mmm. I've got a bit of one. Paul hasn't started yet, have you, Paul?" 

The room spun at a dangerous angle. Paul gripped the table tightly. "I'm sorry. Not feeling quite up to snuff this morning." He chanced a look at John and was relieved to notice a faint hint of concern in his eyes. "I'll give it a try this afternoon, before Ringo gets in. If that's okay with you, John?" 

"I'll thump around until you get into the mood." John pushed his chair back from the table and stood, stretching his neck and yawning. "D'ye have your key, Macca? Lost mine somewhere in my luggage." 

"Sure." Paul stood up slowly, wanting to appear steady even if his legs felt like melting under him. "Mal, could you give us a call a few hours before you need us - and can you get me some eye drops as well?" 

George frowned. "You're looking a bit peaky. Sure you feel all right?" 

"Yeah, just a bit tired." 

"Drained," put in John with an obscene little giggle. 

Brian gave a resigned sigh. "Do whatever you need to do, just be ready for the evening. And Paul - do try and get some writing done today if at all possible." 

Paul nodded, his throat aching and gluey. He walked out of the suite with John at his heels, so close that they collided when Paul stopped to put his key in the lock. He didn't turn around to look at John, just headed for his bedroom without saying a word. 

"Will it bother you if I noodle around on the piano, or should I stick to guitar?" 

Paul wanted to say that anything John could give him, any scrap, even a few notes, would mean the world to him. 

He didn't dare open himself up that far. 

"I don't mind. Might help me sleep." His fingers shook as he loosened his tie. "Let me know if you write our next Number One," he said, hoping to sound nonchalant. 

"I'll give you a shout." There was a horrible, uncomfortable pause, then John added, "Listen, if you need paracetamol..." 

Paul wished it could be as simple as needing a headache remedy, as simple as taking John's hand and saying, _"Let's go see our Paris."_  

But he knew that the only way to survive this godawful trip would be to pretend they were somewhere pedestrian. Brighton. Manchester. Anywhere but Paris, THEIR Paris. 

He shook his head and tried to muster a smile. "Just need a kip, but thanks." 

John leaned over to pick up his guitar, and Paul could swear that there was a spot of colour high on his cheeks. 

Methodically, Paul removed his clothing one item at a time and laid everything carefully across the back of the chair. When he was down to his undershirt and shorts he pulled the covers back and climbed into bed, as bone-weary as if he hadn't slept in a week. 

A week ago they'd been playing and rehearsing. Joking around but always with a purpose, a common goal. John had been predictable, approachable, excited about their trip. 

What had gone wrong? 

Paul lay with his arm shading his burning eyes and attempted to marshal his thoughts. _Can't think about that now. Compartmentalise. We're here for a gig, nothing more. And we need songs, so focus. Focus. Focus._  

He could hear John playing random chords on his guitar, strumming softly with only his fingers. A ghost of a melody began to form in the back of Paul's mind, nothing special: notes descending, clawing their way back upwards, then descending again. 

He thought about Sisyphus as his breathing deepened. 

*** 

Paul wasn't accustomed to silence. 

The room was eerily quiet without screaming fans outside his window, without the other guys knocking about, without music playing from a radio somewhere. 

He was glad to hear someone knocking, even if it meant setting aside the song he was working on. 

"I'm supposed to see if you're awake," George said without preamble when Paul opened the door. 

"Yeah." Paul scrubbed at his right eye with the heel of one hand as he snatched the cigarette from between George's fingers and took a long drag. He started to return it to George, who waved it back at him. "What time is it?" 

"Just gone five. John went with Mal to pick up Ringo and Neil at the airport. They'll meet us at the theatre. Brian...that is, we thought we'd meet in here, if you're up to company?" 

The hesitancy in George's voice wasn't lost on Paul. He forced a smile and opened the door wide. "Could do with some noise - it's too quiet in here."

George loped over to the sofa and picked up John's guitar. He strummed it, frowning. "Christ, does he ever tune this thing?" 

"Not so you'd notice. Usually leaves that for me." 

George opened his mouth then shut it again abruptly. 

Paul was about to tell him to go ahead and speak his mind when Brian entered, smartly dressed but looking around uneasily. "How are you feeling, Paul?" 

"Fine, now. Rested and all." 

Brian's lips were pursed tightly. "Any writing?" 

Paul had heard snatches of tunes as he drifted in and out of sleep. "I know John has a couple. I've got one in my head, just need to write it down." 

"I mean, you AND John. Together." 

Ah. Well. 

Paul hoped his silence would be enough of an answer because he really didn't think he could talk about this with anyone. 

It worked. 

"This...chill, between you two. I don't want to pry, but we have a film score to complete and some other songs are coming due. What's happening, Paul?" 

He looked over at George, who had finished tuning John's guitar. With a smirk, George began to play "The Last Time I Saw Paris." 

"Is that what it's about - how the two of you went to Paris?" Brian asked, sounding astonished. "That was before we even met, it's still that important to you?" 

George stopped playing. His eyes, dark and sympathetic, widened. 

"I thought it was," Paul said, taking care to extinguish his stolen cigarette with his back to both Brian and George. "But it's not. Not to John, at any rate." He put on his Public Relations face before he turned back to them and added, "I won't let it get in the way, I promise." 

"Paul..." 

"Brian, relax." Paul got his guitar out of its case and walked over to where George was sitting. "Shove over, let me show you something." He fingered a couple of chords - F-sharp minor, C-sharp minor. "And E6," he instructed as George began to play along. 

The tip of George's tongue poked out of his mouth the way it always did when he was concentrating.

"La-la-la stars that shine," Paul half-sang. "Love song."  
  
"Pretty," George remarked, but it was a genuine compliment, not just something he said to make Paul feel better. They shared a little smile, then Paul grabbed his notebook and began to write. 

*** 

The Cinéma Cyrano in Versailles was larger than Paul had imagined. He and George whistled as they went into the enormous, elaborate lobby. George's face broke out into a huge smile. "About time, Ritchie!" he shouted, nudging Paul and indicating where Ringo was chatting with Neil and Mal. 

"Over here, lads!" He held out his arms and hugged them both, lingering a bit with Paul and peering anxiously into his face. "You doing all right, there, Paulie?" 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mal's sheepish expression. He'd been telling tales out of school, no doubt. Paul was a little exasperated but mostly relieved, because he knew Ringo could defuse a tense situation as easily as he could pick up a rhythm. 

"Fair to middling. Better, now you're here. What were you laughing about?" 

"Oh! The stewardesses on BEA had a sign in cardboard they wanted me to hold up as I got on board. Guess what it said? 'TLES,' can you imagine?" 

"Did you do it?" chuckled George. 

"Aye, well, they were lovely young ladies so of course I had to play along." Ringo waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

"Speaking of playing along," Neil broke in, "I hate to say it, but there are about a million photographers backstage wanting promo photos, so..." 

Neil wasn't kidding. The entire backstage area was littered with journalists shouting in shrill French and blunt English. Paul saw Dezo Hoffman and gave him a little wave, but he was scanning the crowd for John. 

John was standing with Brian and a tall, dark-haired man Paul realized must be Trini Lopez. Brian waved the rest of the group over and the photographers immediately descended like locusts, the constantly popping flashbulbs making Paul's sore eyes feel as if they were blistering. Mal handed him his bass and mouthed something about giving it to Sylvie for pictures. 

Ah yes, The Lovely Miss Vartan was joining them. 

She was exactly John's type, a silvery-blonde slip of a girl with a waist small enough for a man to span it with his hands. To John's credit, he kept his leering down to a socially acceptable minimum and the French he spoke to her seemed civil enough. She posed with Paul's bass across her lap like a naughty child being spanked, the boys gathering around her with Trini somewhere in the back. 

As quickly as they had descended, the photographers all scattered when the stagehands announced that the show was about to start. Paul and Neil lingered in the wings while everyone else scrambled for the dressing rooms. The two of them watched the various opening acts with very little enthusiasm. 

"Quiet crowd," Paul said under his breath. "Brian said this place seats two thousand." 

"It does, but it's mostly boys. They're rather subdued." 

So was Paul. He knew Neil was appraising him so he kept a smile on his face while they waited for their turn. 

When "Les Beatles!" were introduced, the crowd applauded long enough for them to take their places and get plugged in. Paul was glad to have George between himself and John, and with Ringo behind him, rock-steady, he knew he could give these French boys one hell of a good show. 

They opened with "From Me To You." The sound of their voices, clear and uninterrupted by screams, sent a shiver up Paul's spine. He looked over at George and they grinned widely at one another. George sidled close and said into Paul's ear, "It's like the first time we played with Ritchie, isn't it? Magic!" 

Their sound really was magical, especially when the three guitarists surrounded a single microphone and sang "This Boy." Their relationships might be muddled but their musicianship was unparalleled. By the end, even John was beaming. 

It was after midnight when the curtain came down to polite but enthusiastic applause. Paul unplugged the Höfner and handed it off to Mal with a curt nod, then went straight to the taxi and got in with Ringo and Brian. 

"That was a great show," Brian told them while they waited for the others to get into the cab behind them. 

"God, yeah, wasn't it, Paul? We could hear each other for a change - I didn't have to watch George's arse to see where we were in the songs!" 

Paul's snicker turned into a yawn. "I was going to say we should get a drink to celebrate, but I think I'm going to just turn in. And before you say a word, Brian - I've got a song to play for you tomorrow, the one George and I were fiddling with earlier." 

Brian didn't say anything, just nodded and let Paul watch the lights of Paris as they drove back to their hotel.

They all went up in the same lift. Neil and Mal were discussing some logistics about getting their equipment moved to the Olympia from tonight's venue, but Paul wasn't really paying attention. He said a quiet goodnight as he fished his key out of his pocket. 

He set his jaw firmly as he opened the door to the suite. He didn't even try to catch John's attention; he was too tired, too wary of being burned again. 

John broke the unnatural silence. "I've got a couple of things to run by you in the morning." 

"Fine. I've one, as well." He started down the hall to his bedroom when he heard John cough. 

He was silently rocking from foot to foot, looking pleadingly at Paul. 

Paul knew that stance very well. Normally, he would have gone to John, holding him close and coaxing him to say what was the matter. But after the the events of the last two days - shit, after last NIGHT - he wasn't in the mood to dig down to the bottom of John Lennon's Tortured Psyche. 

He was done being flung around. 

"Good night, then, John," he said as he let himself into his bedroom and locked the door behind him.


	4. 16 January, 1964

As if the situation weren't tense enough, now they had George Martin to contend with.

Disapproval simply radiated from the man as his keen eyes took in the disheveled state of the suite. All of the ashtrays were full to overflowing, loose items of clothing hung from chair backs and lamps, and room service items littered every flat surface. With a grunt of annoyance, Martin removed a beer bottle from the top of the piano and rubbed the wet ring with his index finger.

Paul was looking at his shoes, the familiar sensation of _oh shit, the headmaster's gonna give me six of the best_ twisting his gut. He didn't need to look at John to know that he would be feeling the same, even though he'd hide it behind a mask of indifference.

They both had their masks on today. They'd eaten breakfast in stony silence, then by wordless, mutual agreement went to work on some songs. The few words they had shared were all about the music. Paul thought he detected some double meanings in John's lyrics, but he'd be damned if he'd give in and actually have a conversation about it.

Obviously it wasn't working well enough, or they wouldn't be watching Martin leaf through the various sheets of notebook paper on the music rack, shaking his head. "Isn't there anything finished? Even one song?" he inquired.

Out of his peripheral vision, Paul saw John shoot the V-sign. "We're fucking exhausted. We'll do the fucking songs. We always do the fucking songs. SIR."

Sighing, Paul sat on the piano bench and picked up a pencil. There were about a dozen at hand, none sharpened, all with erasers worn down to nothing. "It's not for want of trying, George," he said in what he hoped was a mollifying tone. "In a couple of days, we'll have--"

"In a couple of days, we need to be recording at the EMI studios here. There are the German versions for their market, and of course we need to give something to the film people." He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. "I know the schedule's rough..."

John took a seat near Paul on the bench so that they were almost back-to-back. "You live our lives for a couple of days, then get back to me about the rough schedule. You'd be drooling in an asylum, not standing there in your fancy bespoke suit doing your 'tut-tut-naughty-boys' routine."

"John," Paul murmured. He wasn't up to a fight. He started playing the chords to the love song he'd been working on, his fingers trembling slightly at the warmth of John's body next to his. It used to be so familiar. He used to want it. But now it just confused him and made his hands feel as if his brain didn't remember how to operate them.

"That's a pretty one," Martin said. His tone was a bit more conciliatory after John's outburst; he always knew when to pull back without giving up entirely, a skill Paul envied. "Does it have lyrics yet?"

"Not all the way through," Paul said, stopping at a cadence point and turning toward Martin and away from John. "Won't be long, though."

Paul started playing more chords, the patterns headed downward, minor chords with dark bass notes. He felt a hand on his arm - John - and another on his shoulder - George Martin - and heard John whisper, "Stop, Paulie."

He hated himself for letting John's hand stay on his arm.

"Lads," Martin said as he squeezed Paul's shoulder, "I can't possibly understand what you're going through. I fought against the German thing, I really did, but Electrola Gesellschaft already sent someone to the studios here to do a translation. Pathé Marconi's people are on the phone with me two, three times a day asking when you can be there for them to teach it to you and record it."

"Teach it to us?" John's question dripped with disdain. "They've got a bloody nerve."

"We did pick up quite a lot of German when we were in Hamburg," Paul added, glad to be able to show solidarity with John for the first time in days.

"Nonetheless, and despite my telling them that this entire endeavour was utterly unnecessary, they insist. I've booked you in on the 27th. It shouldn't take too long, if we can put our hands on the original backing tracks."

Paul felt John slump down next to him, defeated. "It's okay, George," John said softly. "We know you tried."

"Good lads," Martin said. "Shall I leave you to it?"

"If you don't mind," Paul murmured, already turning back to one of John's scribbled pages. "This one should clean up pretty quickly."

"Excellent. Listen, while I do want to hear some of your concerts, Brian and I are staying back tonight so you can get the show running without our interference. We'll see you after."

_Thank you, God._

"That'll be grand, thanks," Paul said. He nudged John with his shoulder.

"Thanks, George," John automatically replied.

The door closed behind Martin as he exited, leaving Paul alone with John. Paul didn't know exactly how he felt about that.

_Compartmentalise. Work. Write. The rest will sort itself out when there's time._

John turned around on the bench so he and Paul both faced the keyboard. They didn't look at one another, but John pointed out a couple of lines on the paper and said, "I have all the words the way I want but I'm not sure how to get to the middle eight."

Paul looked at the sheet, heard the chords in his head, and immediately knew that B Major would be perfect. He was nearly certain that John knew it, too. Was it a trap? Was John trying to get Paul to be a know-it-all so that he could lash out again? Or was he genuinely tired, unable to figure out how connect the two sections?

Before he could work any of that out in his head, Paul's hands were already playing the chord. He froze, worried that John would take his head off - again - but instead John merely nodded and notated the chord above the words 'Can't you see?'

Paul couldn't see, at least not past what he was doing at the moment. At least he and John were collaborating. And the music was what was most important. The music would be enough.

Surely.

***

The outside of the Olympia left a lot to be desired. The brick wall was plastered with posters of the group, of Trini and Sylvie, and a host of other detritus of shows past and future.

"We look so young," Ringo commented as he pointed to the pictures Astrid had taken of them the last time they were in Hamburg. They'd taken turns in the big chair that Stuart had favoured - Paul still shuddered at the thought - whilst Astrid snapped away.

John had been a snippy, irritating bastard that day, insisting that Paul sit at his feet in one of the group shots. Oddly, that photo was one of Mike's favourites. Paul tried not to give that a lot of thought as they trudged inside.

The interior more than made up for the exterior. The Olympia was a lovely old show palace with surprisingly modern dressing rooms. The four of them shared, even though there were enough rooms for them to each have one, because it was simpler and because, even with John's flashes of rudeness, it was just better to be together than apart.

They chatted amicably about the upcoming performance as they dressed and put on their stage makeup. Paul realized he was not looking well when Ringo passed the little pot of rouge to him and said, "You'll need to put some roses in those cheeks, if you want to get laid tonight."

He hadn't even thought about it, but of course there would be girls.

"French girls," continued Ringo as if he'd read Paul's thoughts and gone one step further with them. "I wouldn't mind having a go."

"Nah." John. "When we posed with Sylvie last night, I could feel the layers of corset. She's vacuum-sealed in that thing, all the birds here are. You undo that corset, and WHOOSH!" John made an expansive gesture. "Like having a can of coffee explode on you."

Everyone was laughing when the stage manager poked his head in and said that they needed to be onstage in "cinq." He seemed agitated, which the boys didn't understand until they opened their dressing room door and saw the absolute pandemonium going on in the wings.

"Oh, shit," Paul muttered.

There was a mass of photographers. Alongside them were people from some radio station plugging in equipment, flanked by their helpers and their helpers' helpers.

Paul rolled his eyes at George as they fought their way to the stage. Mal was plugging in John's Rickenbacker, frowning at a meter Neil held in his hand. He handed the guitar over to John, still frowning, but John didn't seem to care. He walked up to the microphone as if he owned it - without his glasses, he had no idea of the size of the crowd - and counted off the opening to "From Me To You."

At the moment they played the first note, the stage was plunged into darkness. Thousands of flashbulbs went off at once, nearly blinding Paul. He could hear the stagehands cursing backstage. Just as his eyes started to adjust, the lights went back on and he was left blinking into the spotlight that shone directly in his face.

They made another go at it, and another, but both times the lights went off with a loud noise as soon as the Beatles began playing.

"Of all the nights Brian could've picked to stay back at the hotel," George complained.

When the lights came back up, to loud cheers from the audience, Neil ran onstage. "They had four - FOUR - bloody radio stations plugged into the system! No wonder the amps overloaded! Mal's sent them packing. Should be okay from now on."

John gestured for them to start up again, and this time the electricity stayed on. Paul turned to Ringo and grinned, getting a wave and a smile in return, and they were able to keep going.

Something was happening backstage. Loudly. Annoyed, George turned up the volume on his guitar, but even with him wailing full-blast on the solos, the angry voices behind them grew ever more insistent.

Paul winced at the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting a nose. He turned just in time to see three photographers pounding away at a fourth, while a whole group of journalists started shouting and throwing punches.

The band was still playing but looking wildly at one another - what to do next? The fighting spread, insanely, from the wings onto the stage itself. Paul, unnerved, stopped singing. "Stop this!" he shouted at the brawling men, beckoning the stagehands to get closer. "Do something!"

The crowd was booing and heckling, shouting things that Paul was certain were choice French obscenities. The mob onstage was heaving past him, crashing into George and nearly sending his guitar to the ground, at which point uniformed _gendarmes_ finally swarmed the stage and pulled the combatants apart.

Shaken to the core, Paul watched as George checked his guitar for damage and John did the same to George, patting his face and arms gently. After what seemed an eternity, John went back to his microphone. His face was pale but he plastered a smile on his face and shouted, "Now that the opening act's done, let's hear 'She Loves You!'"

Surprisingly, once muscle memory kicked in, Paul found himself enjoying the performance. Adrenaline coursed through him but his fingers and voice were as steady as Ringo's drumbeat. Once in a while he glanced over at George to make sure he was all right, but after a few minutes George seemed to be having as much fun as Paul. John was bouncing up and down as he squinted at the audience, singing as if nothing had happened.

It wasn't until they were huddled together in the back of the taxi with Neil and Mal crammed up front with the driver, that Paul's fingers started to shake. He couldn't keep steady enough to light a cigarette. "What the hell was all that?" he asked.

"Something about exclusives," John replied as he gave Paul his cigarette and lit another for himself. "Couldn't make out what they were saying, exactly." He shifted and turned toward George. "Are you sure you're all right?"

George nodded, tight-lipped.

"At any rate," continued John, "from now on, just performers and roadies backstage, agreed?"

"Christ, yes," Ringo muttered. "If I wanted to see a fistfight on stage, I'd go back to fucking Hamburg."

" _Mach shau_ ," added Paul, which made everyone laugh.

They were still on an adrenaline high when they rode up to their floor and saw the door to Brian's suite standing wide open. Mal entered first. "There's no one in here," he said as he motioned the others to come in.

Their dressy suits were laid side by side on the sofa. One of their press guys, Harry Benson, was sitting in an armchair. He was fiddling with some lenses. Paul detected an indescribable smirk on his face.

Suddenly Brian burst in, his face beaming. "Boys, boys - look!" He waved a trade paper at them. "You're number one in America!"

No one moved or spoke. Paul was afraid to breathe.

"It's the Cash Box chart. 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' was 43 last week, and now it's number one - you've done it! You've done it!"

There was another moment of silence, then everyone started shouting at once.

"Let me see the paper!"  
"Give it to me!"  
"Oh, my God, we did it!"  
"America!"  
"Are we going to America?"  
"The phone hasn't stopped ringing!"  
"You're the best, Eppy!"

Paul found himself in Mal's rough embrace, then he giddily jumped on his back, riding piggyback around the room while the others whooped and applauded and Harry took photos.

For an instant, Paul and John embraced, John's lips in Paul's hair as he whispered, "Toppermost of the Poppermost.” Paul's hard-won self control would have melted away had Ringo not stepped between them and hugged each of them in turn.

The moment was gone.

Torn between sadness and relief, too giddy with excitement to worry any further, Paul let himself be danced around the room by George until John began lobbing sofa cushions at them and bedlam began anew.

In the midst of the uproar, Brian shouted, "George Martin's made reservations for dinner; he says he knows the perfect spot to celebrate this momentous occasion. I had the maids bring in your clothes, so change quickly. Harry's going to take a few quick photos here, then we'll meet George at the restaurant."

"Is there alcohol?" asked Neil.

"Oh, definitely." Brian's eyes sparkled. "And the bread's shaped like penises. Let's go celebrate!"

***

The bread was, indeed, shaped like penises.

The hilarious incongruity of sipping expensive champagne whilst drinking soup out of ceramic chamber pots was exactly what they needed. It didn't hurt that waiters were tying garters around the legs of the women seated at nearby tables. The ladies giggled, showing off their long, shapely limbs.

Immune to the feminine wiles on display, Brian drunkenly set an empty chamber pot on his head. Neil snapped a photo, laughing so hard that Paul wondered if the picture would be little more than a blur. "You're booked on the Ed Sullivan Show in New York City," Brian hiccupped.

George snapped to attention. "That's huge in America," he explained. "When I was visiting there last year, the whole city stopped to watch. EVERYONE watches."  
  
"Is that the show that cut Elvis off at the pelvis?" asked John with a sneer.

"Yes, but they won't be doing that with you boys," Brian assured him. His authority was somewhat undermined by the chamber pot that was still on his head, but Paul listened attentively anyway. "We have complete creative control. There'll be one show in New York and another in Miami the following week. I'm setting up more from there." He took a breath. "I got a call from a promoter in Detroit - that's in Michigan - and he offered $10,000 for a single concert."

The group fell silent as everyone absorbed the news. "That's a lot of money, all them zeroes," Ringo commented.

Paul's mouth was terribly dry. He took a long swallow of champagne.

Martin smiled indulgently. "I think it's safe to say that your labours will make you very, very wealthy young men." He motioned for the waiter to bring him the check. "For now, you're very tired young men who should ride back to the hotel and get a good night's sleep.

"I think we'd rather walk back," George said firmly. "We've been cooped up all day. We'll bring Neil along for protection, right, Neil?"

Normally, Mal would have been a better choice, but the big man was very, very drunk. Brian and Martin hailed a taxi, poured Mal into it, and called out their goodnights as the rest of them started walking along the Seine.

"That's a lot of cold, hard, American cash," Ringo slurred. He'd had a fair amount to drink. He slung an arm amiably across Paul's shoulders.

"It is indeed, Ringo. What'll you do with yours?"

"Wine. Women. Song."

"You've had all those already," George told him with a crooked smile.  
  
"So what? Live dangerously, lads! We have a Number One song, thanks to our Johnny and Paulie!" He gave Paul a hug, his big blue eyes watery. "We got there because of you two, y'know."

Laughing to cover his embarrassment, Paul hugged him back. "What about you, George?"

"Guitars. More guitars. Even more guitars! And a Mercedes!"  
  
"I'll get a Rolls," John said muzzily.  
  
"You don't know how to drive!" chorused Ringo and George, but John just waved airily at them.

"How about you, Neil? What'll you do with your filthy American lucre?"

"Not mine," Neil said, not sounding at all sorry for himself. "I get paid the same, whatever you tell me to do."

"Well, that's not on," John replied. His eyes took on a dangerous cast. "I'll give you $2000 to jump into the Seine, right now."

They stopped in their tracks. Paul exchanged a worried glance with George.

"It's fucking freezing!" George declared. "You put on your glasses, son, and you'll see how nasty that water is!"

"The offer stands anyway." John didn't even sound drunk anymore, just confrontational.

"Thanks," Neil said mildly, "but I'll decline."

"Well," John muttered as he threw his cigarette into the river, "I guess that shows us that money doesn't buy everything." He turned away from the group. "I'm going back."

"Just because Neil won't--"

John shook his head. "Nothing to do with that, Rings. Just tired, is all." A passing taxi responded to John's lifted arm and he climbed in.

Paul's heart was hammering. John was acting - well, it was hard to tell how John was acting, and they were all drunk, but something didn't seem right. "I'm gonna follow him," he said, starting to hail another cab, but George pulled his arm back down.

"Let him go. He's fine. Talk to him in the morning."

"George--"

"Paul. Don't."

George seldom gave Paul that look, the one that demanded respect, so Paul knew better than to contradict him. He nodded sharply. George patted him on the arm and led him back to the rest of the group.

"You two still on the outs?" Neil asked sympathetically.

Paul couldn't have answered the question even if he'd wanted to. He shrugged. "We're writing," he said after a moment's thought.

"He doesn't like to talk about it," Ringo admonished in the world's least secretive stage whisper. "It's supposed to be a secret, John and him."

While George tried unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter, Paul wondered exactly how cold the Seine was this time of year and whether Ringo could swim.


	5. 20 January, 1964

_La Vie Avec_ Lennon had settled into a predictable pattern.

Brian allowed the group to have a lie-in each morning, waking them gently with baguettes and tea around noon. Their nine-song set was performed twice daily with all the panache they could muster. In between brunch and performing were daily writing sessions. After the second show, they returned to the George V, had a drink and a bath, and went to bed. Yes, it really was a predictable pattern, and Paul thrived on predictability.

Usually.

Paul found himself blocked, completely and utterly, for the first time in his life. He would sit at the piano for half an hour with his fingers playing snatches of things that turned out to be something someone else had written, when they weren't what George Martin declared were "not up to your usual standard, Paul."

Once in a while, when he and John sat side-by-side on the bench, Paul almost felt the muse returning to him. Then the bench was taken away and replaced by two dining chairs because John claimed he played better if he could rest his arms on something, so even that tiny pleasure was denied.

Paul hated the irony that giving up his feelings for John resulted in him losing his spark, whilst John was ablaze.

Every day John would come up with a new song.

Every fucking day.

On Thursday, they had caught George on the phone with Estelle Bennett of the Ronettes. Red-faced, George met their taunts with the sputtering declaration that they'd only "shared a drink, maybe danced a few times," which made his bandmates howl with laughter.

Friday evening, John produced "I'm Happy Just to Dance With You."

After the Friday night show, when Sylvie invaded their dressing room with tears running down her face over the way her boyfriend had cheated on her, they fed her _madeleines_ while John called her boyfriend a variety of Gallic insults.

The following afternoon, "Tell Me Why" was handed over to George Martin for approval.

Where Paul really began to doubt his talent and sanity came on Sunday night, when the Beatles and their entourage piled into the suite to listen to the song John had just written that morning. John pushed his glasses to the top of his head and motioned for Paul to join him at the keyboard. "It's in G, like this," John said, as if Paul needed to have G Major explained to him. The condescension rankled and Paul had to hold his breath and remember his goal.  
  
_Compartmentalise. The music is all that matters now.  
_

Behind them, Ringo was tapping along on the furniture and George grabbed John's guitar - it was out of tune, AGAIN - and spent a few moments adjusting it before sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing along.

"I should've known better with a girl like you," John sang with a sidelong glance at Paul and an unbelievably irritating smirk, "That I would love everything that you do, and I do..."

Fuck. It was fantastic.

Paul followed along with the chords and let his left hand play a connective bass line. Nothing fancy; it wouldn't do to try and show John up right now, besides which he wasn't sure he could do anything right anymore.

John leaned over the keyboard like Lizst, banging away loudly. The loud pop and sudden illumination of a flashbulb made Paul's hands stutter slightly over an e minor chord, and when he looked up he saw that Harry Benson was taking pictures. Paul plastered a smile on his face and paid extra attention to his expressions as John's song wove on and on.

And on and on and on.

When Monday morning arrived, Paul began to wonder if he'd chosen the wrong career, if it would be too late to go to Uni and become an English teacher with suede patches on the elbows of a tweed jacket.

He didn't even bother to dress for breakfast, which would be in their suite this morning since John had yet ANOTHER idea for ANOTHER song for the film. He shuffled out of his bedroom to find the others in their pyjamas and dressing gowns, sitting on the floor in the midst of a pile of envelopes.

And there was Harry Benson, again. With his camera, again.

"You'd best grab a quick shave, Paul," Ringo said cheerfully. "Harry's gonna photograph us with some of the fan letters."

Paul started to complain that he hadn't even had a cup of tea yet, thought better of it, and padded into the loo. He almost didn't recognize himself anymore, with his pale face - it was impossible to get outside during the daytime with the crazy boys hanging about - and listless eyes.

_Allow me to introduce myself: James Paul McCartney, Failure._

He couldn't do anything right; he even nicked himself shaving. As he pressed a shred of toilet paper to the round dot of blood, he heard John calling to him. "You planning to come out today, Macca? Some of us have things to do!"

Paul wanted to go home. He wanted to give this insanity up and admit to his father that a "real" job was the way to go. He could go back to Liverpool and...and...

Fail.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," he replied, his face freezing as he realized that he'd left the door wide open for John to make one of his most cutting remarks.

He opened the door to the sound of raucous, obscene laughter.

"Fucking wankers," he mumbled as he plopped down between Ringo and George and proceeded to open an over-perfumed envelope. The piano loomed behind him, reminding him of his failure, reminding him of half of what he'd lost.

The other half lay on his stomach next to George, idly fingering some letters and offering opinions on what the writers might look like. "Mousy blonde with stuffing in her bra," he said as he cast aside a sheet of flowery paper. He wasn't wearing his glasses, of course, so Paul knew all he could see were colours and shapes. "Where the fuck do girls get pink pens, anyhow?"

"Maybe it's diluted blood," George said out of the corner of his mouth. He was sorting letters, making a pile to send to his parents. Louise, particularly, enjoyed writing little notes to the lovesick girls who dreamt of their dark-eyed hero.

Paul once thought about turning his fan letters over to Mike but he dreaded what his puckish brother might do with them. He always answered the sweetest ones and let Freda take care of the rest.

"That'll do, lads," Harry said in his lilting brogue. "Brian says you have an interview at noon, and there are two shows, so don't get overtired."

"But we're off tomorrow, thank Christ." Ringo stood up and stretched his arms over his head. "What're you going to do, fellas?"

"Write," Paul said firmly.

John's low grumble of "Chance would be a fine thing" should have earned him a sheaf of envelopes in the face, but Paul knew that was John expected. It gave him a rush of cold pleasure to turn the tables, to deny John in any way.

Brian, who had been sitting on the sofa with a stack of telegrams, cleared his throat and started to speak. "Capitol Records finally released the album."

Ringo cheered and flung a handful of envelopes in the air. George smirked as he said, "About bloody time - what good does it to do Parlophone to be a partner with them if they turn down our records?"

"Did this lot at least get the cover photo right?" John inquired, squinting up at Brian. An obscure label called VeeJay had put out a bastardized Beatles album when Capitol turned down "With the Beatles," which had enraged the group. It was a shoddy job. Even the cover photo, which was one of Astrid's, had been tinted and flipped backwards.

"I think so, although the title has been changed to 'Meet the Beatles.'"

"Better than 'Beat the Meatles,'" quipped John, earning him a punch in the ribs from George.

Brian shook his head, smiling tightly at John's off-colour remark. "Make sure you don't say that during the radio interview, if you please."

"Best behaviour, I swear," John said sweetly, then he turned and gave Harry's camera a wide, maniacal grin.

***

Paul was the only one in the group who'd heard of Robert Marcy before the interview, thanks to his father's eclectic taste in music, so he took up the Public Relations role despite his lingering headache and general malaise. He was a little surprised that John sat next to him and shared a microphone. The closeness in an offstage setting made him feel a little awkward.

It made him sad, he realized halfway through the interview, and he missed an entire question because he wasn't prepared for the wave of sorrow that crashed over him. John peered at him, his head cocked to one side. _You okay?_ he mouthed.

Only the knowledge that they were live on the air kept Paul from punching him in the face. How dare he, how fucking dare he, after the crazy antics he'd been pulling all week? Every time Paul came to grips with It's-Only-A-Working-Relationship John, every time he learned to cope with I'm-The-Real-Talent-You-Pathetic-Wanker John, there would be a moment where HIS John would reappear and send him reeling.

John lightly put his hand on Paul's elbow. He almost leapt out of his seat in sheer frustration before he shook the hand off and tossed his head.

_I can be just as much of an arsehole as you, Lennon.  
_

Beads of perspiration were starting to come out on Brian's forehead as he watched this latest display of bitchiness. Paul forced himself to smile, to give John a little nudge for Brian's sake, but it fucking hurt.

Everything hurt.

He still loved John in the old way.  
He still wanted to write with him.  
His writing was as stagnant as an old puddle.  
John was writing brilliantly without him.  
John didn't love him in the old way.

Everything hurt.

The pain didn't lessen despite all Paul's efforts to _compartmentalise, damn it._ Every time he stood with George and John to sing "This Boy," he felt the lyrics down to his soul.  
  
_This boy wants you back again.  
_

He was still humming it after the second show. They'd met in George and Ringo's suite, everyone in their pyjamas and dressing gowns so they could relax. Paul ordered a brandy from Room Service and was sipping it cautiously, letting it relieve some of the ache in his body, when Harry Benson dropped into the chair next to him.

"Still wish you were in Syria?" Paul asked. Harry had been furious at being reassigned from serious war correspondence to take on the Beatle tour, but after seeing their first show the dour Scotsman had become enchanted with the gig.

"Oh, aye. Much easier to deal with bullets than screaming girls."  
  
"Not so many on this trip. You should see us back home."

"So I've heard." Harry eyes Paul's drink. "Like the expensive stuff, eh?"

Paul took a sip of the viscous liquid and let it soothe his throat. "Can't take it with me. And it tastes good."

"But not as good as a banana milkshake."

John had sidled up next to them, holding a bottle of beer. Paul felt a sudden desire to throw himself out the nearest window, anything to get away from the torture. "Private joke," John added as Harry glanced between them, clearly confused.

"Ah. Say, any chance of repeating the pillow fight from the other night? It'd make a great photo."

John scowled. "We'd look like idiots," he declared as he stalked away.

After a disconcerting pause, Harry said, "Sorry, Paul, I didn't mean--"

"Don't mind him, he's been--"

WHAP!

A pillow hit Paul squarely on the head. Brandy droplets sprayed everywhere.

Paul jumped up and turned around to see John chortling with triumph. Behind John was Ringo with another pillow that he aimed squarely at George. "Don't you dare," George grumbled, but he was about to burst out laughing. He scrambled to his feet and ran into his bedroom, the others on his heels.

The room was much smaller than Paul's, with two single beds so close they nearly touched. Paul, still clutching the pillow John had lobbed at him, jumped on one bed and threw an extra pillow to George. George lost his footing and landed on his back, howling with outraged laughter whilst the other three began pummeling him.

Harry was shooting away, egging them on. Paul glanced over his shoulder and saw the fond, indulgent smile on Brian's face as he watched his boys. Ringo snatched away George's pillow and tossed it to Paul. He held it high above his head with the first genuine enjoyment he'd felt since this whole ridiculous trip began.

When George was completely covered in pillows and the others were breathless, Harry lowered the camera. "Did you get what you needed?" Brian asked him.

"Oh, aye. I think I got the picture that'll send me to America with you lot." He jerked his chin toward the door. "I've got a darkroom set up in my loo - I'll show you these tomorrow. Good night, lads."

"Night, Harry!" they chorused. Ringo, who had collapsed on top of George, got out of the bed and ran a hand through his tangled hair as he headed for his own room.

"Right, I'm off to bed. See you tomorrow, then - unless you want to sleep all day."

"I thought about it," George said, yawning. He looked so young with his broad smile and disorderly hair, as young as when he and Paul had gone hitchhiking a million years ago, before the music and the fame and whatever the fuck this thing with John had turned into, and Paul missed those days with all his heart.

Behind him, he heard John announce, "I'm gonna pack it in, too. Come on, Macca, gotta get your beauty sleep."

Paul thought he could use a beauty coma, given the restlessness of the last few lonely nights. He started to follow, then turned back to George and sat down heavily on the other bed.

"Is it...would...can I kip here?"

George blinked at him. When he opened his mouth, Paul silenced him with an imploring glance and he nodded instead.

"G'night, John," Paul said evenly, turning to give John a slight smile that he did not return.

He looked as stunned as Paul had ever seen him. "Paul, what're--"

The gentleness in his voice snapped something deep inside of Paul, something he had been desperately trying to keep in one piece.

"I'm tired, John. I'm tired, I haven't been sleeping for shit lately, I'm tired, and I'm fucking LONELY!"

The word reverberated through the little bedroom. Ringo probably heard him - shit, Brian probably heard him - but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was afraid he was going to cry if he had to say even one more syllable.

John's hand came down on his head, lightly, a ghost of a caress, then he left in silence.

George sat up in his bed, his brow furrowed in concern and alarm. "Paulie..."

Paul held up his hand, palm outward, and shook his head. "Don't," he breathed. "Don't be kind to me, I'll fucking lose it. Just be...here. Okay?"

"Okay." George watched patiently as Paul took off his dressing gown and laid it neatly at the foot of the bed. Paul snuggled under the covers, bone-weary. Even when he closed his eyes he was still aware of George's concerned gaze.

George began to hum softly, something that Louise used to sing when she was baking. When Paul took a breath he imagined the scent of the Harrisons' kitchen at teatime, and when he exhaled he finally began to fall asleep.


	6. 21 January, 1964

Paul's dream about chasing an elephant through Allerton Cemetery in a snowstorm was interrupted by hushed voices.

"He looks like shit." Ringo.  
"At least he got some sleep." George.  
"Great, so he looks like rested shit."  
"Shhh, don't wake him up."

"Too late," Paul muttered. He turned over in the little bed and opened his eyes. George was clad in a hotel bathrobe, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, but Ringo was dressed and looked ready to go out. They grimaced at him apologetically while Paul dragged himself up, resting with his back against the headboard. "Sorry I'm not looking up to scratch."

"We're just worried about you." Ringo's eyes were solemn. "John's worried about you."

That was rich. Paul barked out a sharp noise that didn't quite pass as a laugh.

"He's been to the room, what, three times this morning? Four?" George fussed with the belt on the bathrobe as he spoke, tying it firmly around his waist. "I haven't even been able to shave. He keeps coming by, asking if you're up yet, if you've eaten anything, that sort of thing."

Ringo sat on the edge of the bed. He started to reach out to touch Paul but drew his hand back. "I know you don't like to talk about this...this thing between the two of you."

"Because I'm not a girl," groused Paul.

"Be easier if you were, or if one of you were, at least." Ringo wagged his eyebrows. "I still think it's bloody weird, and I do not ever, ever want to know the details." He shuddered from head to toe, exaggeratedly, making his point clear. "We hate seeing you so torn up, is all."

Such good lads.

"I'll be fine, really," Paul told them firmly. "Some breakfast will do the trick. I've got an idea for a song, so I'm going to work on it this morning."

"I'm glad to hear that, but no, you're not working on it this morning," George said briskly. "There's a publicity outing for you and John. Shopping at a fancy jewelry store."

Paul had to make an effort to close his mouth. He looked from Ringo to George and back again. "Are they mad? It'll cause a fucking riot!"

Ringo shook his head. "Brian's got them to shut the store down for a couple of hours while you go spend your hard-earned _francs_ on expensive stuff for your aunties. Derek's going along with you two and bringing Harry along; they say it'll be a great human interest story to have you thank the women who acted as your surrogate mothers."

The idea of Auntie Jin doing the ironing whilst wearing a diamond tiara made Paul burst out laughing. Tears pooled in his eyes and he wiped them away with his sleeve. "That's daft. John will be absolutely livid."

"It was John's idea, evidently," George said. "We're splitting the group in half. Neil's taking Ringo and me, plus Dezo, to a tailor."

"Our inseam measurements will make great fan magazine fodder," added Ringo.

Paul desperately wanted to get out of this insane plan but he couldn't think of an excuse that Brian wouldn't see through. Groaning, he got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. "Is there food anywhere?"

"Some in your room. John's been dressed for hours, so you'd better grab something and hurry." Smiling encouragingly, George patted Paul on the shoulder. "It'll be good to get out of here for a while, not to have to think about music."

"But music is the only thing I can stand to think about," Paul blurted. He immediately regretted it when he saw the expressions on his friends' faces. "Sorry. Sorry to drag you two through all of this. Sorry to take up space in your room, George."

"Any time. ANY time."

Paul's smile was genuine. Thank God for George.

He made his way back to his suite, where John was sprawled in a chair with his guitar across his lap. His glasses were halfway down his nose. "You're up," was all he said as he looked Paul over carefully.

Paul bit back his urge to reply with _keen grasp of the obvious_. Instead he just nodded toward the bathroom. "Gonna clean up. How long before Brian needs us downstairs?"

"Twenty minutes enough?"

Twenty years might not be enough, but the minutes would have to do. As Paul headed for the shower he heard John call after him, "Bring your wallet, son. We're about to make some very large investments in the French economy."

***

"I feel fine," Paul declared for what felt like the twentieth time that morning. He was wedged between Brian and John in the back seat of the taxi, trying not to look at the streets of Paris.

"It's just that if you can't get enough rest, the next two weeks will be very rough on you." Brian's tone was conciliatory, neutral. He didn't have an agenda that Paul could detect other than trying to keep Paul vertical. "I can get you a room alone if that would help."

That was the last thing Paul wanted, being left alone with his ricocheting thoughts. "No!" he exclaimed, a little too quickly. He glanced over at John to gauge his reaction, but John was looking out the window. Only the high set of his shoulders gave any indication that he was worried about Paul's answer. "I'd rather not be alone - I'd just bounce around all by myself," Paul said more cautiously. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John's shoulders relax slightly.

Brian's expression was still doubtful. He always perspired when he was nervous about something. As he gave Paul a falsely cheerful smile he took his handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. "That's all right, then," he murmured, "whatever will make you happy."

Paul tried to remember the last time he'd been really, truly happy. It was probably the night of the Palladium performance, when John had rushed him offstage, pulled him into a disused dressing room, and given him a huge, enthusiastic kiss.

"I wish I'd paid more attention," Paul said softly, then flushed when he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"To what?" inquired Brian.

John turned toward him, his eyes dark and wide and questioning.

Paul swallowed. "Whether...that is, I don't know what...size...to get my auntie."

He deserved John's snicker; it was a terrible, weak lie. Brian glanced from Paul to John and back, then said "Size? Get her a necklace or a brooch, and you don't have to worry about it the way you would with a ring."

"Right." Paul gave up and looked out the window at the elegant shops of the Rue de la Paix. It reminded him of Regent Street, which reminded him of London in general, which reminded him of Jane.

He'd called her three nights ago and she had scarcely crossed his mind since.

Shit.

He looked down at the gleaming bracelet on his wrist. He'd been hyper-aware of it when Jane first gave it to him, the night of that godawful birthday party when John had put Bob Wooler in the hospital. The clasp was fiddly so he never took it off, and now he had actually forgotten he was even wearing the thing.

"Best get something for Jane - she'll be expecting it, you know," John remarked.

How the hell did he DO that? How were Paul's thoughts so transparent to John, when John's were so opaque to Paul?

"What are you getting Mimi?" Paul asked, trying to sound as if he'd given all of this a great deal of thought.

"Dunno. What do you get the dragon who has everything?"

The taxi pulled up in front of Cartier. Two men in livery stepped quickly to the taxi and helped John, Brian, and Paul into the store before the curious crowd had a chance to tackle them.

"This is dead posh, don't you know, old chap," John said in an affected, plummy accent.

Brian shot him a look that clearly said _behave yourself_ just as two tall Frenchmen in ostentatious bespoke suits greeted them and offered to show them around.

Harry and Derek, who had arrived earlier to get set up, waved Paul over to a case with strands of pearls adorning black velvet cushions. "How about these?"

"They don't go with my eyes," Paul deadpanned. They all looked alike to him, so he turned to the obsequious salesman and asked his opinion.

Of course, the man went straight for the strand with the largest pearls and a hideously ostentatious diamond clasp. "Your lady would be exquisite in these."

Paul shook his head. "It's for my aunt," he explained. "She's a..." He didn't know how to describe Auntie Jin, the force of nature who'd kept his father in one piece after his mother's death. "She doesn't dress up much. Maybe something for church, she'd like that."

He made a point to smile for the camera while picking out a long double strand. Harry dutifully snapped a few pictures and went over to where John and Brian were staring at an endless array of bracelets.

Thinking about his aunt made him think about his dad and Mike, and homesickness unexpectedly flooded over him. He hadn't called them much on this trip. They always saw through his counterfeit cheerfulness and there was no way in hell he was going to tell them why he was so miserable. He picked out a pair of heavy gold cufflinks for his father and a sterling money clip for his brother and asked the salesman to gift-wrap them.

That left Jane. What in the world would she be "expecting" from him, according to John?

His eyelid twitched and he rubbed it with one finger. His eyes still felt gritty, even after a fairly good night's sleep, and he found it hard to concentrate. In another part of the shop, John was pointing animatedly at a Mickey Mouse watch atop a display and insisting that his salesman get on a ladder and bring it down. "Is that for Julian or for you?" Derek asked him, and they all started to laugh.

Paul managed a chuckle and got back to the business at hand. Remembering what Brian said about brooches not needing to be any particular size, Paul strolled past a case of them. All kinds of colourful gems winked at him, too many, and he was too distracted to pay attention.

Then he saw it: an elaborately worked silver beetle with sapphire eyes.

Paul's first impulse was to show it to John, who would chortle at the reference. He looked over at him, watching him gleefully rub his hands together as he watched his purchases being wrapped up in colourful paper. John was always so happy when he could give things away, when he could share his good fortune. That was one of the many things Paul loved about him.

He bit his lip as he remembered where he was and the way things were.

_Compartmentalise. He's your friend, your bandmate, your writing partner. Not your lover. Not anymore.  
_

He watched impassively as the silver brooch was placed in a small velvet box that was tied with a silky white ribbon, all the joy of his find leached out of him. All he felt, besides the ache in his heart where John used to be, was lethargy.

Of course he made an effort to be upbeat, to thank the salesman, sign a couple of autographs, and pose for yet another set of what seemed to be endless photos. He hoped the smiles would mask how absolutely ghastly he felt.

After what felt like an eternity, they piled back into the taxi and drove out of the 2nd arrondissement. Paul leaned back against the seat with a tired sigh.

"I hope this wasn't too much of a strain on you." Brian addressed them both but his eyes were on Paul.

"Easy, once I got over the shock of the prices here." Paul faked another smile. He wondered if his face could actually crack under the pressure.

John leaned past Brian. "I bought Cynthia a diamond bracelet - she'd been yammering about wanting one forever, so I hope this'll do. Did you get something for Jane?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Paul reached into his shopping bag and pulled out the little velvet box. John glanced at it, then nodded as he turned back to the window.

"I've had a song kind of get stuck in my head, so I'll get started on it this afternoon. Unless there's something else we need to do?"

"Nothing. I'll have dinner sent up. Just us, Neil, and Mal, no photos or journalists. I promise not to talk too much shop."

"That'd be lovely, Brian, thank you." Paul closed his eyes and tried to sort out the words that were hovering just out of reach.

 _One and one is two._  
_What am I to do,_  
_Now that I'm in love with you?_

It was a bit rubbish but at least it was something.

***

John had wanted to try _escargot_ so everyone had a couple of them glistening on their dinner plates. Ringo gave his share to George, who dipped one in garlic butter and put it in his mouth. His eyes watered as he struggled to swallow.

"What?" asked Brian, who was eagerly devouring his portion.

George grabbed his water glass and drained it. "It got BIGGER," he gasped. "Food's not supposed to do that, is it?"

Paul, who wasn't particularly hungry to begin with, passed his _escargot_ to John and poured more water into George's glass. "Not what you were expecting?"

"I was expecting actual food, not herbed snot in a shell." He looked at Paul's plate, which was still mostly untouched. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"A bit. Don't want to put on weight before we go to America. After all, 'the camera adds ten pounds,' as they say." Paul patted an imaginary paunch and hoped the conversation would turn to something else.

"I thought we weren't talking shop," complained John as he spooned the _escargot_ from George's plate onto his own.

"Sorry, sorry." Paul put up his hands, palms outward, then dropped them to his lap when he realized that they were shaking slightly. He made a show of eating some meat, even though it felt like lead in his stomach. There was no way to miss that George and John were both watching him.

Mal handed a sheaf of photographs around the table. "These are what Harry took last night. They're a gas, aren't they?"

From his vantage point over Ringo's shoulder, Paul had to admit that the pictures had liveliness that most of their group shots lacked. George even smiled at them. "He told me once that when we're lined up all formal and stuff, two of us always end up looking stupid. Usually me and Ringo." He shot Ringo a lopsided grin and Ringo stuck out his tongue in response as George continued talking. "I like these. It looks as if we're actually having fun."

Brian set down his fork and knife. His face could turn so sad, especially when he thought someone was criticizing him. He worked hard, Paul knew, almost as hard as the four Beatles themselves, and his capacity for self-loathing was dangerously high. "I do try, boys," he said softly. Paul looked around the room and saw the stacks of letters, telegrams, and contracts that Brian took care of so that they didn't have to, and he felt ashamed of his self-absorption. He stood up and gave Brian a hug, George and the others following suit almost immediately.

"I'm sorry, Eppy."  
"We know how hard ya work, Eppy."  
"Chin up!"

Once Brian was beaming and relaxed again, John pulled Paul aside. "I'm thinking of writing a bit tonight. Will you be in our room or in George's?"

Paul tried to read between the rapidly shifting lines. Did John want help on the song, or did he want Paul to go away and leave him alone? John's face was mildly questioning, no sharpness in his eyes, so Paul tried to keep his answer nonchalant. "Dunno, hadn't thought about it. You have a preference?"

John's face went pink. He looked down at his shoes, then swallowed and looked up at Paul. "I started a song this afternoon but..."

God forbid that Lennon actually ask for help. Paul took a few steadying breaths. His first instinct was to tell John to fuck off, that he'd been composing like Vivaldi for days without his help, but the memory of the aching loneliness kept him silent. If he couldn't have the love, at least he could have the music.

_Your partner. Your friend. Compartmentalise.  
_

When Paul nodded, John gave him an enormous smile and reached out as if to touch his face, then dropped his hand lower and patted his upper arm instead. Paul could tell that John was battling his own demons.

"Let's get some sleep," Paul said as he pulled the room key out of his pocket. "We'll do better in the morning after all the wine and snails wear off."

John's laughter was the sweetest music Paul had heard in a week. It took all of his considerable willpower not to pull John into his arms and plant kisses all over his face, especially when John looked hopefully at him as they stood at the doors to their respective bedrooms.

 _Think with the head between your shoulders,_ he could hear his father warn.

When he said good night, he felt as if he'd stabbed John in the back.


	7. 26 January, 1964

 

By the twelfth day they were in Paris, Paul began to wonder if he'd set the world's record for going mad.

He awoke to find himself surrounded by the detritus of a failed writing session. Nubs of pencils with the erasers worn away and wads of screwed-up paper were strewn all around the mattress like the flotsam in his sea of personal failure. His acoustic guitar lay abandoned on the floor, a spot of blood on the b-string accounted for by a slice across the tip of his ring finger.

Three empty wine bottles were further evidence of his absolute and utter inability to come up with a single usable melody, much less a lyric that would pass John Lennon's Muster.

It wasn't for want of trying.

***

The morning after their day off, Paul had awoken refreshed and ready, at last, to write. He shut himself up in his bedroom with his guitar and endless cups of tea until he had the song nearly finished.

 _One and one is two._  
_What am I to do_  
_Now that I'm in love with you?_  
_I'm hoping every day_  
_I'm gonna hear you say,_  
_"You really make my dreams come true."_

Would John consider that a taunt? Would he throw "Toppermost of the Poppermost" in Paul's face, insist that it was his band that launched Paul into the stratosphere, so how dare he ask for more?

 _Can't you feel,_  
_When I'm holding you near,_  
_All the things I do -_  
_Show my love and I'm making it clear?_

By the early afternoon Paul had moved into the sitting room so that he could play the song through on the piano. He hated sitting on the little armchair, hated the feeling of his wrists against the wood, so he ended up twisting nearly sideways as he played.

"Got anything besides three chords?"

The sudden question made Paul jump, his heart thrumming. "Fuck, Johnny! I didn't even know you were in the room!"

"Sorry I startled you. Just got back - you were playing so loud you wouldn't have heard a truck run through the room." John took a seat in the chair next to Paul's.

Once upon a time they would have been sitting side by side on a bench, touching at the hips, the shoulders, the souls.

 _Compartmentalise,_ Paul told himself for the thousandth time in a week. He didn't know why he bothered; it wasn't working very well.

"It's a simple tune, I don't want to make it too fussy," he told John. Truthfully, he hadn't noticed that he'd only used three chords because the words were what meant the most to him.

John's expression clearly said that he wasn't having any of it, but he spoke benevolently. "Keep on, then, don't want to interrupt the flow."

Paul leaned forward. He concentrated on keeping his fingers steady on the keys as he read his tidy handwriting and sang. His voice was rested, thank God, and it didn't crack or waver.

 _Can't you see, I loved you from the start?_  
_Don't you love me too?_  
_I love you, but you're breaking my heart_  
_From wanting you._

"Wait, go back." John reached across Paul and played a G7 chord. "That's better than plain G. Do it again."

His concentration was shaken but Paul started the verse once more. John sang along, nodding his approval of the chord change.

 _I love you, but you're breaking my heart_  
_From wanting you._

Paul's fingers slipped. He hit a couple of bum notes and stopped. He was breathing hard, too hard for the little bit of singing he had done, and he could hear John breathing at the same tempo. "Paulie," he whispered. They turned toward one another, John searching Paul's face as if looking for a clue.

God only knew what John would find there, because Paul felt as if the earth was swallowing him up. He clutched one of the arms on the chair and raised his other hand to touch John's face.

Fuck compartmentalisation.

He bent forward a little. He could almost taste John's breath, a little sour from too much coffee and too many cigarettes.

This was a terrible idea. They'd only end up damaging one another again. If John backed away it would be salt in the wound. But if Paul stopped him instead, he'd be lashing out at John instead of reaching out to him, and he'd be the one causing the pain.

But why did he care about hurting John, when John had hurt him so terribly?

But than, it might be his fault. What had he done that could have forced John do that in the first place?

Why was he so conflicted?

Why was Brian standing in the doorway, looking as if he'd just stepped in a pile of dog shit?

"Boys," Brian said, a world of discontent in his voice.

John jumped up, nearly tripping over the chair leg. Paul felt a wild rush in his bloodstream, frustration and relief mixed with guilt over the relief, an endless loop that almost made Paul fall over in his chair.

John, his face going from white to red, stood like a schoolboy in front of his teacher. "We're working, Brian," he said, grimacing as if he could hear how idiotic his excuse sounded.

"I heard the song from outside. It's a bit thin, isn't it?"

Privately cursing John for leaving the door open, Paul cracked his knuckles. What little remained of his restraint fell by the wayside as he asked, cattily, "Can you do better? Show us, then."

He heard John suck in a breath, heard Brian let one out in a long-suffering sigh as he said, "You know that's not what I meant, Paulie."

"Don't call me that," growled Paul. Not after he'd just heard it from John's lips.

"That's not what I meant, PAUL." Brian's tone was icily, falsely polite. "Only that John's gotten quite a few songs done on this trip and we either need some good input from you or he's going to end up having the whole soundtrack to himself. Your choice."

"Doesn't matter if I write, does it, when it'd just be LENNON-McCartney anyway."

It tumbled out of him before he could filter himself. He brought one hand to his mouth as if he could push the words back in. His vision was fuzzy around the edges and he felt sick to his stomach.

"You've been letting that fester for quite a while, haven't you?" Brian asked smoothly, even though Paul could see the worried furrows in his forehead. He didn't dare look at John.

"Wouldn't YOU?" He heard the words cascading from his lips, unstoppable as a flood. "Wouldn't you feel it eating you up inside if your manager and your so-called best mate flounced off to Barcelona for bullfighting and blowjobs so they could fucking well screw you over?"

John had always vehemently denied that anything happened between them on the trip, but now his flushed complexion and downcast eyes told another story. Paul's swing had been wide and sloppy, but it connected as surely as a physical blow.

Paul wasn't sure whom he'd hit the hardest. It was probably himself.

"I shan't dignify that with a response," said Brian, but Paul could detect the tiniest quaver in his voice. "What I came in to tell you was that there's been a report in the gossip columns that you're about to propose to Jane. If that is indeed your intention, then congratulations. Obviously I'll try and keep it quiet as long as possible - it won't do to have two of you 'taken' when we tour America. If not, then I'll issue a vehement denial today." He crossed his arms and glared at Paul. "Which is it?"

Shocked, Paul glanced at John, who was staring back at him wide-eyed. "First I've heard of it," Paul managed to say despite the heavy feeling in his stomach that didn't bode well. "Hadn't even crossed my mind."

Brian nodded. "Best put 'paid' to the rumour then."

Paul tasted sulphur and bile at the back of his mouth. Any hope of pacifying Brian and John whilst maintaining his dignity vanished; he raced for the bathroom just in time to vomit up his breakfast.

In between bouts of retching, Paul heard Brian tell John, "Take care of him, and for God's sake pull yourselves together."

Paul flushed the toilet so he wouldn't have to hear John's response. He prayed, as he laid his head against the cool porcelain, that John would just go out with Brian and leave Paul to die alone.

His prayer was answered, as were so many others, with a No.

John pulled a flannel from the towel rack and ran cold water over it. He knelt by Paul's side, pressing the damp cloth to the back of his neck. Moaning, Paul tipped his head and saw John's troubled expression.

"It wasn't really like that. I never meant...I was worried about the band, about my place in the band, that's all. When he told me what he'd done about the name thing, I was just as shocked as you."

Paul didn't trust his voice. It took all his strength simply to nod. Shaking his head sadly, John turned the flannel over to the cooler side and wiped the sweat from Paul's forehead. Their eye contact was agonizing.

"I've fucked everything up," John murmured. He sat back, hitting his head against the bowl of the sink and letting out a noisy cry of pain.

Paul flung the flannel at him.

They looked at one another and started to laugh. After a few moments, when the fit of giggles died down, Paul remarked, "It sounds kinda good in here."

John snapped his fingers and nodded as he listened to the echo. "Tell you what - let's record your poor little song right here in the loo. Might help it to have some reverb."

Paul knew that George Martin had brought a Brenell tape machine with him to record some of their concerts. He made a mental note to ask to borrow it. But first, he helped John to his feet and reached for a toothbrush. As he scrubbed the foul taste from his mouth, he heard John ask if he was all right.

He spat out the toothpaste and stood straight, looking at his pasty reflection in the mirror. "Yeah. Sorry, I don't know where all that came from," he replied, even though he knew precisely what dark, hopeless place inside him had produced his outburst.

"I'm surprised you waited this long," John said with a lopsided grin that couldn't disguise that his dark eyes were full of pain. Paul reached for him but John pulled back, almost shyly, and jerked his chin at the door. "I'll go tell Brian you're all right to go on this afternoon."

Brian. Shit, that was something else he'd have to fix on this damned, doomed trip.

Paul washed his face and contemplated the steps he should take to repair the vast shithole that his life was becoming.

***

It was a daft idea to record in the bathroom - "That's incredibly disgusting," Ringo had scoffed when he heard of their plan - but that's where they met up with their guitars and the Brenell they borrowed from George Martin. John, who was infamous for breaking expensive electronics, allowed Paul to do the setup. He sat on the closed toilet lid, his guitar on his thigh, and watched Paul thread the tape and plug in the microphone, which he suspended precariously from the shower curtain rod.

"Where are you gonna stand?" John asked.

"Bathtub."

"What if the microphone falls - will you get electrocuted?"

Paul stared at him. How was it possible that John functioned in the world? "There's no water in the tub, you berk."

John seemed to accept this, but he remained wary as Paul stepped into the bathtub with his guitar slung across his shoulders. Paul reached out to flip the switch, then pretended to be shocked, letting his body jerk around until John leapt up to pull the plug.

"Joking! Sit down, Johnny!" Paul waved him back to his seat, earning a filthy scowl. "Got you good, mate. Now, let's do this for real." Paul turned the recorder on and did a soft count-in.

_One and one is two...  
_

It was almost like the old days, playing to one another in the living room at Paul's house, or up in John's tiny bedroom.

 _If you say that you're gonna be mine,_  
_Everything's all right._  
_All the world would look so fine,_  
_If you'll be mine tonight._

Paul thought the simplicity of the structure was perfect, but any hope he had of agreement from John was dashed when he turned the machine off.

"Billy J. is finished when he gets this song," John declared.

Paul decided to laugh it off, because laughing was easier than committing murder.

***

By the twelfth day they were in Paris, it was no wonder that Paul thought he was going mad.

The next few days had continued in the aggravating seesaw pattern. John alternated between being friendly and aloof, Brian continued to demonstrate helpfulness and wilting sarcasm in turn, and Paul was certain that everyone else wished he would just go home and let Klaus stand in for him.

Paris, as far as Paul was concerned, was the worst place on Earth, second only to America. He was sick to death of listening to paeans to the glories of the New World and couldn't have cared less at gunpoint whether they did well or flopped completely. There was no conquest that hadn't lost its lustre.

He even turned down Sylvie when she gigglingly suggested that he accompany her back to her apartment in the 8th arrondissement. "How sad, _mon cher garçon,_ " she had replied with a flip of her blonde hair whilst Ringo and George gaped in open-mouthed disbelief.

He paid a backstage visit to Trini between shows, to ask how he was getting on. The polite gesture ended up with him humiliating himself further by speaking to Trini in his finest schoolboy Spanish, only to have Trini respond in perfect English, "That's very kind, Paul, but I'm actually American." Paul was still sputtering when John passed by, singing "Lemon tree, very shitty..."

The visit ended as catastrophically as it had begun.

Paul stalked back to the Beatles' dressing room and began applying more pancake makeup than was strictly necessary. He glanced down at the trade paper someone had left and read the headline: "Beatle Paul Not Headed Down the Aisle." Sure enough, Brian had indeed issued a vehement denial, which was the first hint of relief Paul had felt in days.

John, Paul noticed, was glancing frequently at his watch and tapping his foot. He'd been up to something for days, but had managed to slip away every time anyone had tried to question him. His face lit up when there was a knock on their door.

"You'd best answer that, Paulie," he said with a wicked grin.

Paul prepared himself for a stripper, a pie in the face, or even an entire brass band playing "One and One is Two" in three unrelated keys. He could never have prepared for what he actually saw when he flung the door open.

Jane stood in the doorway, smiling fondly and opening her arms to him.


	8. 27 January, 1964

"For the eleventh time, Neil, she's staying at the Ritz. We had dinner last night after the second show, then I kissed her goodnight and sent her off in a taxi."

Catcalls and jeers met Paul's huffy statement. Ringo threw a roll at him, which bounced off his head and left a little trail of jam just below his cheekbone. 

Paul removed the jam with his finger then calmly leaned forward and wiped it off on Ringo's sleeve. 

He had spoken the truth. They had shared a lovely dinner at a bistro near the Olympia, where they chatted about Jane's latest play and the upcoming Beatles film, then they had kissed goodnight as he opened the taxi door for her. Her smooth, delicate hand had felt alien when he held it, almost as if he had forgotten what her touch even felt like. He'd imagined her hands - and her lips, and many other parts of her - that night in his bed. When he came, stifling his groans in the pillow, it was the most unsatisfying orgasm of his life. 

John leered at him. "I'll vouch that he came alone last night." 

Paul shot him a glare and hissed, "Shut up!" just in time to miss something Brian was saying about having to leave right away for a meeting with Monsieur Odeon. Paul kept meaning to sort things out with Brian but had lacked the time or energy, and now that Jane was visiting he doubted the situation would change anytime soon. 

When Brian left the room, George lifted his head and addressed the group. "We're all in agreement, then?" 

Everyone but Paul nodded. "Agreement...?" Paul asked. He didn't care for the furtive looks on his friends' faces.

"We're bloody knackered," George said, "and re-recording 'She Loves You' and 'I Want to Hold Your Hand' in German is idiotic. We talked last night while you and Jane were out, and we agreed to just stay in the hotel today." 

"We have a day off tomorrow," Paul began, only to be cut off by Ringo. 

"And we'll be too fucking worn out to enjoy it! We've got two shows to get through tonight, again. That's enough for me." 

They rarely saw that stubborn side of Ringo, and even Paul knew better than to try and apply reason when the eyes were so steely and the jaw was set.

"Besides, don't you and Jane have plans?" Mal asked. The razzing started again, which Paul decided to ignore in order to answer Mal's question. 

"She went shopping - she thought I was tied up." John and Neil exploded in lewd cackles. "Fuck off, you two. She'll be here when she's done; only instead of waiting around we'll already be in the room. That is, if you lot promise to act like decent human beings around her." 

"We'll treat her proper," John said, still snickering. At Paul's stony look of disapproval, he put his hands in the air. "Promise. We'll not disturb Lady Jane's peace." 

Paul's peace, on the other hand, seemed to be none of John's concern. While he showered he thought about the events of last night, how Jane told him that John had telephoned to say that Paul was "so terribly lonely" and how he had suggested that she pay a visit, especially since they were off on the 28th. 

He dressed more carefully than usual, taking a moment to ensure that he had enough clean clothes for the rest of the trip. It was silly, when he thought about it, because the hotel offered all sorts of cleaning services, but it always made him feel secure when he could count on looking smart. 

Jane breezed in just before noon. Two porters carrying hatboxes, shopping bags, and all sorts of little parcels followed her. Smiling, Jane tipped them generously and thanked them in beautifully accented French. 

"They're all but touching their forelocks," John commented drily. Paul kicked him in the ankle. 

Looking around at the group, Jane greeted everyone by name. When she locked eyes with John, he gave her an exaggerated, mocking bow and Paul felt her shudder as she snuggled next to him on the sofa. "He asked me to come - why's he acting so weird?" 

That was a question for the ages, and one that Paul was in no condition to answer. Instead he put his arm around her and breathed in the scent of her cologne. It was feminine and sweet, as unlike John as any aroma in the world. 

He just might be able to compartmentalise after all. 

When the phone rang, everyone jumped. Neil got up to answer it, dragging his feet as if hoping the ringing would just stop if he didn't get there in time. The bell was insistent and he picked up with a frown. "Hello?" 

Someone was speaking loudly on the other end. Neil put his palm over the receiver. He exaggerated the movement of his lips around the silent words, "George Martin." 

Paul felt the blood rush to his face. He knew they'd be caught out - how could they not? - and he was too tired, too strung-out from nights of little sleep, to tamp down the fight or flight response skittering through his bloodstream. 

Jane's eyes grew wide as Neil spoke into the phone. "I'm sorry, they're not coming. They asked me to tell you." 

"Not coming where?" she asked, frowning. "Where are you supposed to be?"

Even over the telephone, Paul could make out the clipped pronunciation of George Martin's words. "You mean to tell me they're telling YOU to tell me?" 

John rolled his eyes at Ringo. 

"That's right," Neil said, rubbing his hand through his hair until it nearly stood on end. 

"I'm coming right over." The force with which Martin put down the phone was strong enough to make Neil wince as he hung up and turned to the group. 

"He's pissed," Neil announced. 

"Real gift for understatement you've got," countered John. 

Paul looked around the room at his friends, lounging bonelessly across the hotel furniture, then at Jane's puckered lips and furrowed brow. "We were supposed to go record some stuff. Rubbish, German versions of a couple of songs."

"You stood him up." It wasn't a question. Jane's eyes flashed cold fire as she turned to John. "This was your idea, I take it?" 

John's response was to shove his glasses into place with his middle finger. 

Ringo, hanging his head, was the only one who looked guilty. 

"We've been working ourselves into the ground," George rasped. The thickness of his overused voice made Paul wince in sympathy when he thought about the two shows they had to do that day. 

"But not to show, not even to call - that's not done!" 

"Oi, listen to her. 'Not done.' You're a snob, Miss Asher."

"John," Paul interjected. It was meant as a warning, and he knew it hit home because John's took off his glasses and batted his eyes at Jane, who shook her head as she nestled against Paul's side.

A firm knock interrupted whatever John was going to say next. Neil answered, holding the door wide so that two waiters could enter with enormous trays. 

"Tea _ex machina_ ," John quipped. He stood up and started pushing furniture aside. "We can have a little picnic, nothing fancy, eh?" He was sidling up to Jane, trying to win her over for reasons Paul failed to comprehend. Jane was a professional, had been since childhood, and Paul knew in his heart that she was absolutely right to call them out on their behaviour. 

But John had managed to brighten the mood as the five of them sat down and let Neil pass them plates and teacups. John set the teapot in front of Jane with clownish, exaggerated courtesy that made her giggle. "Would you be Mother, then, please?" 

Paul wondered if that was some sort of sly dig, but John merely sat down and held his teacup out for Jane to fill. Her hair shone in the afternoon sunlight, set off by a black velvet Alice band that kept her fringe out of her eyes. She was exquisite. 

If only he could love her the way he loved John, his life would be so much easier. 

John started teasing Ringo about tearing the crusts off his sandwiches - "A bit of decorum, my boy, there's a LADY in the room" - when there was another knock on the door. 

"Don't answer," George suggested around a mouthful of bread. 

Mal rolled his eyes and got up to let George Martin into the room. He was impeccably dressed as always, and he loomed over them like judge, jury, and executioner as he surveyed the little tea party. 

Calmly, her soft little hands completely steady, Jane poured another cup of tea and looked up. "Do you take milk and sugar, Mr. Martin?" she purred as each of the Beatles leapt to his feet and feigned hiding. George and Paul crouched behind the sofa, Ringo slid behind the piano, and John stood ramrod-straight next to a floor lamp. 

"Two lumps and a splash of milk, please," Martin said as if on automatic pilot. The corner of his mouth quirked upward as John took the shade off of the lamp and placed it on his own head. "And perhaps you'd be kind enough to pour for Mr. Demmler?" he added, gesturing to a man standing in the doorway. "Otto Demmler, this is Britain's eminent young actress, Miss Jane Asher." 

Demmler, a greying Teutonic gentleman with twinkling blue eyes, bowed at the waist. "Charmed," he said as he accepted his tea. 

"Otto is the producer for EMI in Germany. He - and I - waited for over an hour at the studio but the boys never showed." 

"Sorry, George," came Ringo's contrite baritone. "Sorry, George," they all echoed, and to Paul's relief, Martin started to laugh. 

"You are bastards, aren't you?" he chuckled. "Aren't you going to say 'sorry' to Otto?" 

"Sorry, Otto," they chorused. George nudged Paul with his shoulder and indicated that they should get up. Paul rose, acutely aware of how red his face had become, and gave Martin and Demmler a contrite little smile. 

Jane was done with serving and sat demurely with her teacup lifted to her lips. She eyed Paul over the rim - she would have more to say to him in private, he could tell - as she made polite chitchat with Demmler in a schoolgirlish but passable German. On the other end of the room, Martin was making arrangements with Neil and Ringo for them to come to the studio in two days. 

John had taken the lampshade off of his head and was turning it around and around in his hands. Was he tuned in or tuned out? Paul had no idea what John was thinking right now, couldn't read anything in the heavy brown eyes, and that realization almost knocked him off his feet. 

*** 

"I've spilled coffee all over myself," George groused as they stood in the hotel lobby after two more grueling shows. He accepted a handkerchief from Paul and dabbed at his shirt, spreading the brown stain until it looked more like a wound than a spill. 

"That's worse," Ringo declared, unnecessarily, and at George's glare he merely shrugged and nodded toward the elevator. "I'm gonna go to bed, so be quiet when you come in, there's a good lad." 

Paul and George waved him away, George staring at the mess on his shirt and tie. "I'm out of clean clothes. You have anything I can borrow for tomorrow? John and I are leaving first thing." 

Paul swallowed the sigh that rose in his throat as he thought of the little mound of perfectly starched shirts, one for each show, in his dresser drawer. The idea of being one short made him feel anxious, and the silliness he felt over it made him even more anxious. But this was George, so of course he nodded. "Come on up to mine - John's out with Brian, Mal, and Neil, but Jane and Big George are probably having a chat." 

They rode in exhausted silence to the top floor of the hotel. Paul patted his pocket to find his key but the door was slightly ajar already. Room service, probably - Paul could smell something savoury - which meant they could get something to eat. He shared a silent grin with George and put his hand on the doorknob. 

"But Jane," George Martin was saying in a pained tone of voice," the ramifications could be severe if they're caught out." 

Paul froze. He could feel George's breath on the back of his head. 

Jane's laughter was airy. "No one who knows, cares. Times are changing, Mr. Martin."  
  
"But the law isn't. The world doesn't work like the army, where that sort of thing can be winked at in a darkened barracks with no women about. This is about four boys living in a goldfish bowl. The press love them now, but the merest whiff of scandal could turn that around in a heartbeat." Paul heard the flick of a lighter and recognized the staccato inhalations of a man lighting a pipe. "If they find out that there's been - excuse the word - buggery..." 

"Oh, no. Nothing like that." Jane giggled. "Paul doesn't go in for that sort of thing. He finds it - what's the term he uses? - 'aesthetically unappealing.'"

Paul's body went rigid, his face hot with shame. He couldn't imagine what George would be thinking right now, how appalled and disgusted he'd be. 

To his surprise, George leaned forward a little, his hands resting gently on Paul's shoulders. 

"Have I shocked you?" Jane asked. 

George Martin audibly sucked in a lungful of smoke. The thick, slightly sweet aroma wafted out of the door. "A bit. But Jane, what about your father and Margaret?" 

"They know already, of course they do." 

Christ. 

"They arranged it, for Paul to come live with us. There's loads of fans and photographers around. It's great publicity for Peter and me, and Daddy's practice is all but overflowing." 

Paul only realized that he was shaking when he felt George's fingers, supple and firm, kneading the knotted muscles of his shoulders. 

"Do you love him, though?" 

"Oh, he's a darling. He treats me so beautifully, and you have to admit we look wonderful together." 

"You're not answering the question. You have to realize that Paul, that all of the Beatles, aren't just voices in the studio. I'm fond of them. Genuinely fond. I don't want to see any of them hurt, any more than I want to see you hurt. Jane - do you love Paul?" 

In the silence that followed, Paul was certain that he was about to die of a heart attack. 

"Have you asked Paul if he loves me?" 

"Jane..." 

"It isn't a charade, Mr. Martin. I fell for Paul the day we met. All the boys flirted with me but the only one I wanted to notice me was Paul. We talked for hours and hours and it was as if we'd known one another all our lives. When John told me--" 

"John? You found out from John?" 

George ran his hand down Paul's arm and clasped his wrist. "Come away, Paulie," he whispered, tugging gently, but Paul shook his head. He dreaded what Jane would say next, but he couldn't stop himself from listening. 

"A couple of days after that awful birthday party, John telephoned and asked to meet me. I thought he was going to apologise." She laughed mirthlessly. "It was, to say the least, an eye-opener. I'd never heard the word 'beard' used like that before, much less been called one, and I went home in an absolute flood of tears. But Mum already suspected, and she and Daddy sat me down and explained how it could all turn out for the best." 

So that was why they made their offer of the attic bedroom. 

Richard and Margaret set it all up. 

Christ. 

George, who had evidently heard all he could endure, coughed loudly and rattled the doorknob. He gave Paul a sad little smile, whispered "Chin up," and walked into the sitting room as if he had no idea anyone was inside. "Oh, hello, you two - is there any food left?" 

"Plenty," Martin said. He looked a bit uneasy, but George gave him a huge smile that seemed to settle him down. Paul forced himself to walk over to Jane and give her a kiss on top of her head. She scooted over in her chair so that he could sit with her. He thought about turning her down, but that would only make her suspicious, so he settled by her side. 

All Paul could think about was the after-dinner word games the Ashers played, the ones where he plainly didn't have a good enough vocabulary to compete. He thought about the way Richard and Margaret would look at one another while Paul struggled. 

He thought about something Ringo had said once, about how Paul was living in the attic and working in the basement as if he'd gone into service. 

Now he was tired, so fucking tired, and if willowy Jane had turned to poison Ivy, he didn't have the energy to deal with it. He rested his head against hers, her warm body fitting cozily at his side. He saw the cautious look one George gave him and the compassionate, almost pitying one from the other. 

The reverie meant he missed the beginning of the conversation, and he blinked in confusion as George explained the expedition he and John would be taking tomorrow. "...party in London. Phil Spector will be there, and the Ronettes." George cut a glance at Paul and he blushed a little when Paul raised his eyebrows at him. "Then we'll fly back first thing on the 29th." 

"That's the day we're making up the recording session." Martin's tone was stern but still fond. "You'll be there this time." Paul and George nodded simultaneously, guilty little grins spreading across their faces. Martin shook his head but he was smiling at them. "Then, if you'll excuse me, I'll say good night." He shook hands with everyone, lingering a little with his big hands engulfing Jane's dainty one. 

Jane, consummate actress that she was, dimpled up at him and wished him a good night in a cool, controlled voice. Paul was in equal measure impressed and sickened, but he swallowed it down. He was too worn out tonight - it would keep until tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, when John would be gone and he'd have Jane to himself. 

God help him. He'd thought this would be better, but now... 

George looked intently at Paul. _Should I stay or leave?  
_

"Go in my room and grab a couple of shirts, whatever you need. I'll walk Jane down to the lobby and make sure she gets into a taxi." 

If Jane seemed surprised to be dismissed, she covered it beautifully. She gave George a jaunty wave, then slipped her hand in Paul's and followed him to the lift. 

"What should we plan for tomorrow?" she asked. 

Paul didn't want to start anything, not tonight when he was all but dead on his feet and the world felt like it was crashing around him. He gave her hand a squeeze and smiled at her. "Come back here at ten. John and George will be gone by then. We can...chat." 

They walked through the lobby hand in hand. Jane was dazzlingly beautiful when she reached up to put her arms around Paul's neck, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. "I can't wait. See you in the morning." 

He kissed her back: a Judas kiss. But he plastered a pleasant expression on his face as he handed her into the taxi. 

It wasn't until he returned to the empty, silent bedroom that he felt free to give in to his grief. He leaned against the windowpane and looked down at the glittering Parisian streets, the chilly glass comforting him as tears began to fall down his burning face.


	9. 28 January, 1964

By morning, Paul had smoked every cigarette he could lay his hands on. His fingers, stained orange with nicotine, trembled so much that they were nearly useless. His lungs felt progressively stickier with every breath he took until they finally protested in painful spasms. Coughing hard, Paul leaned against the wall and slid downward until he landed on the floor. He didn't hear the door open. He probably wouldn't have cared much if he had.

"Jesus Christ!"

John was dressed for the day's travel, a valise in his hand. He set the case down and strode the rest of the way into Paul's bedroom. Disapproval and worry radiated from him.

"Did you even go to bed at all last night? No, don't answer that, I can see the bed's not been slept in." He wrinkled his nose. "Cor, it's like a tobacco swamp in here. Does the window open?"

"Dunno," Paul coughed as John struggled with the sashes until a rush of cold January air fought to disperse the worst of the smoke. "What time is it?"

"Just gone eight. Me and George are about to leave for the airport. He'll be here in a couple of minutes." John adjusted his trousers so that he could sit tailor-fashion on the floor next to Paul. "He told me what happened last night. Gave me quite an earful."

Paul's laugh turned into another coughing fit. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. His shirtsleeve was dirty. "Come to rub it in, have you? 'Oh, Paulie, we've pulled the wool so far over your eyes you might as well be a lamb. We'll roast you and serve you with a lovely mint sauce.'"

John didn't make the cutting remark that Paul expected as a reply. He frowned, tilting his head so he could meet Paul's eyes. "I don't know what to say." The words bore no trace of irony.

Blinking, trying to get moisture into his bleary, stinging eyes, Paul looked up at the ceiling then back down at John. "It's a sign of the apocalypse - John Lennon is at a loss for words!"

"Macca--"

"Sod off." He sucked in another lungful of smoke and blew it toward the window. It blew back in his face. Typical. "Did you go running to Brian, all proud of your Machiavellian scheming?"

"He doesn't know. Or if he does, he didn't hear it from me." John mumbled something so indistinctly that Paul couldn't make out the words.

"What did you say?"

John snatched the cigarette from Paul's fingers and took a puff. He didn't return it. "I said that Brian's got enough on his plate already."

"What's that mean? The American tour?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" John took the last drag on the cigarette and fumbled around for a place to stub it out, finally locating an overflowing ashtray and shifting the detritus out of the way far enough to extinguish it. "You can be an egotistical, clueless prat but you're not STUPID." His hands free, John began ticking his fingers in an imaginary list. "It's not enough that I got Cyn up the stick and had to marry her - not that anyone who could count the months between wedding and Julian would be fooled - but we're the fucking Beatles, so we really do it up right. Someone could easily dig up the sordid story of my feckless dad and my mum with her bastard daughters. There's Ritchie's teenaged hairdresser girlfriend, and now George is making a play for Estelle, who'd love to play back from the looks of things. God, the Americans will go right off their heads with that one."

Paul sat up straighter. His only thoughts on the subject had been that Estelle was a cracker and George was a very silly boy if he hadn't taken things to the next level. But he was compelled to see John's point through Brian's eyes.

"But the two of us...shit, Paul, it's the end of our careers at best if we get caught, and jail at worst. Imagine me in jail!" John tugged at his hair. "I couldn't even manage art school!" They giggled at the shared recollection of John's adolescent rebellion. "After everything Brian's done for us, we keep putting him on the brink of disaster. We keep putting the whole group on the brink of disaster. I was just trying..." he shut his mouth so hard that Paul could hear the click of his teeth as they snapped together.

Unable to help himself, Paul reached out and stroked John's unruly mop back into order. "Johnny." Catlike, John arched into the caress with his eyes closed. "You could've told me this," Paul murmured. "Would've saved me a world of hurt."

"You're not the only one who's been hurt. Do you think I enjoyed this, any of this?" Paul raised his eyebrows and John answered with a self-mocking grin. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I can be a cruel bastard sometimes. But pushing you away..."

"And pulling me back, and pushing me even further, and pulling back again? Making it impossible for me to write?" Paul moved his hand away from John's hair. "Were you trying to make me hate you?"

John looked down at the floor. "Did it work?"

Paul felt the rush of blood from his face. He was glad to be sitting down because his legs would have collapsed under his weight. This insane game had been battering him for two weeks, robbing him of sleep, of patience, of talent itself, and he simply could not go on anymore.

"Yes."

John bit his lip and nodded. He got to his feet slowly, hunching over like an old man. "That'll be George," he said when someone knocked on the outer door of the suite.

"You'd best be on your way, then." Paul could scarcely recognize the lifeless, grinding mumble his voice had become.

John took a step forward, his hand extended, but Paul was so sure of his imminent collapse that he covered his face with his hands as if he could block out the world, or at least John. He rocked back and forth, back and forth, trying to soothe the ache in his body and mind, not really listening to the footsteps around him or the hands on his back and shoulders.

Too many hands.

He lifted his face to find George peering down at him with wide, pained eyes. John had slipped beside him, rubbing the back of Paul's neck.

"I don't think I should go," George said. His accent was full-on Scouse, which seldom happened except when he was upset. "It's just a party, I don't need--"

"Go. Go." Paul sagged against the wall and stared at nothing. "I have to see Jane in an hour or so and you really don't want to be here for that."

John broke in. "She IS in love with you, Paul. This situation isn't her fault, you can't blame her."

"WATCH ME!" Paul shouted. The volume was excruciating and he winced.

"That's it, I'm staying. You're in no condition to be alone." George unbuttoned his jacket and let it drop to the floor. He was wearing one of Paul's shirts, too large across the chest and short enough in the arms that George's prominent wrist bones showed.

"Please." Paul gazed up at his friend, pleading with his eyes, with the dejected slump of his body. "Go and have a good time. I just need a bath and some sleep." He gave George the look that Mimi always called 'doe-eyed.' "I wouldn't be able to relax, knowing I kept you from Estelle. Please, go."

George shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing from Paul to John and back again. "All right, but I'm telling Ringo to check up on you after Jane leaves, and if he calls to say you're in a state then we're coming straight back."

"Won't be." Paul scratched the back of his head - his hair was greasy. "Scout's honour, Uncle Georgie."

Unconvinced but conflicted, George grumbled, "Call me that again and you'll earn me fist in your face."

Paul forced a smile. The last thing he needed was Saint George trying to slay a petite, red-haired dragon. He felt a swell of affection and the smile broadened, softening into something genuine and demonstrative.

"That's better. Christ, you scared me for a bit. Get up and tidy yourself up, for fuck's sake, you're a mess and you smell like an ashtray." George scooped up his jacket and put it back on. "I'll call for the taxi, John."

"I'll be down in a moment." John's words were a surprise; Paul had nearly forgotten that he was in the room, despite the long fingers that were stroking the hair at his nape. John took away one hand, patted his pockets and produced a long, narrow box. "This is for you. I got it the other day when we were out."

It was a reflex to take the offered item. Paul set it gently on the floor next to him.

"Aren't you going to open it?"  
  
Paul shook his head.

"I was feelin' terrible about the way I treated you, and--"

"Ta, John." Paul took care to keep the tremors out of his voice, but it was difficult. "I'll look at it when you get back. I can't right now. I..."

Damn, he was a wreck.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried again. "I know you tried, and I appreciate it. It's just that...I want the things money just can't buy."

John swallowed, obviously hurt. He gave Paul's head a caress, then turned to pick up his valise. As he started to the room, he turned back and called out, "There's a song in that."

Paul laughed bitterly. There used to be a song in everything.

It took a ridiculous amount of effort to clamber upright and stumble into the bathroom. Paul turned on the water as hot as he could stand, then stripped down and showered quickly. He hummed to himself. It was a tune he didn't think he'd heard anywhere before. Perhaps it was a sign.

Shaving and combing his hair meant looking at himself, so he did them quickly, then brushed his teeth until the stale cigarette aftertaste was gone. Once he put on clean clothes and felt more like Paul than a Dickensian waif, he went into the sitting room and waited for Jane.

Of course she was prompt. Right on the first chime of a nearby church clock, Paul heard her knock smartly on his door. He opened it, almost taken aback by how pretty she was in a pale green dress, her hair shining around her glowing face.

Glowing. She was actually glowing.

Paul gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He recognized the perfume as Joy, which he'd given her for Christmas.

"You look so tired," she said to him with a click of her tongue as she set down the train case she was carrying. "They work you too hard, all of you."

"Didn't sleep much," Paul confessed.

Jane turned up her face to him, her lovely blue eyes guileless. She was smiling but she seemed nervous, somehow. Paul wondered if she knew she had been overheard the night before, but she didn't look guilty at all, just...fidgety.

"I thought that maybe, with John back in London for the night, I might..." she gestured to the train case.

The familiar warmth spread through him at the thought of Jane's silky flesh against him, of murmured endearments and the way he always slid smoothly into her body. They had to be quiet at Wimpole Street, to avoid waking her parents or embarrassing Peter and Clare. Here, enclosed in this baroque cocoon, they would have more freedom.

He was tempted, but the words he'd been planning slipped out of him unbidden.

"I overheard what you told George Martin last night."

She blushed and lowered her eyes. "I thought you might have done. I'm sorry if that upset you."

"I don't see how it could do anything else - Jane, is this all a sham?"

"No!" She grasped his hands and held them to her lips, kissing his knuckles one by one. "You know that from the start it was always you. Always. I wanted to go slowly, but my parents pushed, and then John..." When she trailed off, tears were pooling in her eyes. "I couldn't believe what he was telling me - but why would he lie and ask me to stay WITH you? Even after he told me what you two did, I still loved you. God, Paul, when he told me about you I was still a virgin - why would I give myself to you, knowing about John, if I didn't love you?

_Have you asked Paul if he loves me?  
_

"Don't cry, love, there's a good girl." Paul drew her head down to his shoulder and stroked her hair. She was adrift in this madness as much as he was, or Cynthia, or anyone dragged along in John's thrashing wake. Her parents' scheming, distasteful as it was, had merely been a byproduct.

"I do love you, Paul," Jane whispered into his neck. "I'm sorry I spoke out of turn to Mr. Martin, but I do love you."

He hugged her tighter, feeling the rapid pulse in her neck beneath his fingers. "The problem is that you're a good actress - so good that I can't tell the difference between 'onstage' and 'offstage.'"

She made a little cry of protest, but when she drew back and met his eyes, he didn't see any artifice in her face. There was only pain. "When John called and said you were so lonely, that you needed me, that you..." she paused, colour staining her face. "...that you had something you wanted to give me."

"Oh!" This would be the easiest thing he'd done in weeks. He sprang up and grabbed the little box from his bedroom and came back into the sitting room. With a flourish, he passed the box to Jane.

She pulled the silky bow and shyly looked down at the box. "Go on, open it," Paul encouraged. At least something he'd done would be appreciated.

"Oh, Paul." Jane undid the ribbons and opened the box. She peered into it and an unpleasant expression fleetingly crossed her face, reminding Paul of a kitten sniffing a dish of sour milk.

"It's a silver beetle - that was the name of the band, way back in the day, the Silver Beatles..."

Jane's countenance was frozen in a neutral mask but tears were standing in her eyes again. "Thank you. It's lovely," she whispered, blinking hard.

Like a sudden thunderstorm on a lovely spring day, the entire situation crashed down on Paul's head.

Jane was expecting an engagement ring.

John had seen the box but didn't know what was in it, and someone at Cartier's probably made the same mistake and gone to the press with the erroneous tip that Brian had to quash. Then John had called Jane, certain that Paul was going to ask her to marry him, which would take him off of John's hands.

What a tangled web.

"Oh, Christ, Jane, I'm so sorry." Paul dropped to the floor at her feet, realized that she would think that was a proposal, and scrambled back upright. "It's not John's fault; he didn't know what was in the box. It does look like it could be a ring."

Jane's mercurial face flickered from misery to amusement. She took the little beetle from its velvet nest and balanced it on her finger. "Not the first time there's been a misunderstanding between us. But will it be the last?"

The night before, Paul would have sent Jane packing with a flea in her ear. But today - calmer, with more knowledge and less gut feeling - he still loved her, still wanted to untangle the convoluted situation.

"I think we can work it out."

Tenderly, Jane set the brooch back in the box and shut it. "What I think," she said slowly, "is that I should be going back to London. Too much press around here, too many ways things can be misconstrued. Especially in a situation such as ours."

Paul pulled her to her feet and gave her a lingering kiss. "Symbiosis," he breathed against her lips. "I learned that word in one of your parents' after-dinner games. We feed off one another." A second kiss followed, and a third. "We need one another."

"I agree." Jane ran a finger down Paul's nose to his lips and he pretended to snap at it. "When do you get home?"

It seemed inconceivable that this long, arduous trip would ever end, and Paul had to think hard to remember the date. "The fourth? I'm pretty sure." He shook his head. "Phone me when you get in and I'll let you know."

When he started to walk her out the door, she stopped him with a gentle hand on his chest. "There's no need. The doorman is an absolute love - he'll take care of me. Stay here and some rest, Paul."

He kissed her again, cupping her chin in his palm. When they parted and Jane waved goodbye, he felt as if a tightly wound spring in his body had just been released. He could breathe. He could think.

Perhaps he could even write.

Leaving the door slightly ajar, Paul stepped toward the piano, the nemesis he had faced so unsuccessfully, and ran his hand over the keys. The ivory felt inviting, but the armchair simply had to go. He shoved it aside and pulled the piano bench out of the corner. That was better, that was normal.

Left hand first, he thought, playing a bouncy little jazz pattern. He added chords and started to sing.

 _I'll buy you a diamond ring, my friend,_  
_If it makes you feel all right._

It needed some blue notes. He tried again, singing E-flats over the C Major chord.

 _I'll get you anything, my friend,_  
_If it makes you feel all right._

"That's first-rate, that is."

Paul smiled at the familiar, well-loved voice. "C'mon in, Ringo." He swung around on the bench - another improvement over the armchair - and waved toward the sofa. "What's up?"

"Oh, you know, this and that." Ringo lit a cigarette and lounged on the sofa. He blew a smoke ring in the air, then turned toward Paul. "I was in the lobby when Jane left, so I wondered if you might need some company."

"Your company? Always." Paul gave him a fond smile. "It's not bad, actually, the thing with Jane and me."

"And John?"

"Ah. That's a little more complicated." Paul thought about the gift-wrapped box. "He got me a present. I wasn't...completely gracious about it. Didn't even open it."

Ringo nodded gravely. He leaned on one elbow, the cigarette dangling from his hand. "You're looking for feelings, not things, aren't you?" He blew two more smoke rings, looking like Alice's caterpillar. "Did you tell him that he can't buy your love?"

 _Can't buy my love._  
_Can't buy me, love._  
_Can't buy me love._

Paul jumped off of the bench, grabbing Ringo by the shoulders and surprising him with a bear hug. "You're a genius! Just listen, listen - this'll be a song Billy J. wouldn't turn down!"

He raced back to the piano and started a new phrase. _  
_

_'Cause I don't care too much for money;_  
_Money can't buy me love._  
_Can't buy me love -_  
_Everybody tells me so._  
  
He could hear Ringo tapping energetically on the furniture. Paul picked up the tempo, not even bothering to write anything down. This would be a song worth playing for the others, a song worth remembering.


	10. 29 January, 1964

The stillness in Brian's suite belied the fact that it was going to be a hectic day. Neil and Mal were headed off to the Pathé Marconi studio where they and George Martin would organise things in the unfamiliar setting. Brian had been anxiously replying to even more telegrams from America, only stopping to eat breakfast because Ringo threatened to throw every scrap of paper out of the window if he didn't. 

Paul offered to help. 

He was perched on the windowsill, watching the bustle below whilst eating a _mille-feuille_ and washing it down with strong tea. Each bite sent a dusting of sugar and cocoa powder to his trousers but he didn't care. In a way, he was the calm center of the Beatle storm this morning - finally - and he was content to watch the world go by on this cold, clear day. 

The view from Brian's window was perfect for observing the front of the hotel. Paul took a lazy bite of pastry as a taxi pulled up to the entrance and two tall, slim men got out, only to be immediately surrounded by autograph seekers. "They're back," Paul said over his shoulder. Foolishly, pointlessly, he tapped on the window and waved as if they could hear him from the eighth storey.

He laughed at himself, at his eagerness to see the people he'd been cooped up with for two weeks. But he'd missed them both last night, as much as he'd enjoyed a fruitful evening of writing in Ringo's earnest, honest company. 

But they were always better together, when there were four of them.

Paul's pulse quickened when he heard footsteps and two familiar voices calling, "Daddy's home!" He turned, smiling, just in time to see George and John stride into the suite. 

"Glad you're back - it was too quiet by half around here with you gone," Ringo said as he went to hug the newcomers. "Did you get into any trouble?" 

"I was good as gold," declared John, "but our George, here - can't vouch for what he and Estelle got up to in the dead of night." 

Ringo and Paul catcalled him, but George refused to so much as blush. Paul glanced at Brian. He didn't look happy, but the veins weren't standing out in his forehead so Paul assumed he was prepared to handle whatever came his way. 

Paul stood up, brushing more sugary powder off of his trousers. "Good to see you - oof!" He gasped as George gave him a tight hug that nearly took his breath away. 

"All right?" whispered George, and Paul was glad to be able to look his friend in the eye and honestly give an affirmative nod. 

Then John stood in front of him and held out his hand. Paul took it, the weight familiar in his palm. "You've got cream right here," John said, swiping his other thumb at the corner of Paul's mouth, and it took all of Paul's self-discipline not to kiss the pad of flesh that was so, so close.

"Ta." In for a penny, in for a pound, Paul thought as he tugged at John's arm and gave him a hug. He recognized the scent of John's aftershave and the peculiar smell people got when they'd been traveling: dust and ozone and a little bit of sweat. It wasn't a relaxed embrace, but at least it was friendly. 

John sighed a little when Paul released him. "How long until we have to go to the studio?" he asked Brian. 

"Not very. We should go down in a minute. Do you need to call Cynthia?" 

"Why do...oh. Yes. I'll just drop off my things and meet you downstairs." He looked over at Paul as if to ask him to come along.

Paul shook his head. "Don't want to intrude - see you in a minute." He waved John away then reached down for his guitar case.

"That's your acoustic - what do you need that for?" asked George as he snatched a pastry from the table on his way to the door. 

Ringo and Paul exchanged knowing grins. "State secret," said Ringo with raised eyebrows. 

George glanced between them, then lifted his eyes to the heavens. "It's going to be a hell of a long day, isn't it?" 

*** 

There was something hilarious about a Belgian trying to teach Liverpudlians a German translation of the songs they'd written in English. Camillo Felgen seemed pleasant enough, even if he did resemble a vampire with the widow's peak in his black hair, but John kept laughing whenever Felgen corrected his pronunciation.

Paul scanned the lyric sheet. He'd picked up some German when they had been in Hamburg, but even with his limited knowledge, he thought the translation was wide of the mark. 

"It's rubbish," muttered George. "It's not the same to say 'come, give me' instead of 'I want,' and that's just the fucking title." 

John - who had, of course, failed to bring his glasses - merely squinted at the paper in his hand as he sounded out the words again. 

Felgen sighed apologetically. "They gave me only twenty-four hours to finalize these versions. I'm sorry if they don't suit you as well as you might wish." 

"I'm sure it will be fine, Camillo," George Martin assured him with a frown at the musicians. He ran a hand through his blond hair. "We do have a secondary problem, chaps: the original backing track of 'She Loves You' is nowhere to be found, so I'm afraid you'll have to do it again from scratch. That's why we needed Ringo here today." 

His statement was met with a chorus of groans. 

"We do have the original for 'I Want to Hold Your Hand,' so why not start with the vocals for that one?" 

"Might as well, I could use a nap," Ringo said, ducking the crumpled paper bullets the others lobbed at him. "I'll sit in the booth with Norman, then give you my critique." 

"Give my regards to Normal," John warbled. He took his place at the microphone and motioned for Paul to join him. They struggled with the German words, stopping over and over to complain about a clunky phrase that caused them to trip up. After a while they found a groove and began to have fun with the chore, and even George began to enjoy himself. 

"I think this last one's a keeper," Norman Smith said from the booth. "Is Take 11 a wrap?" 

Felgen and Martin nodded, seemingly happy to get that over with. Ringo sauntered down from the booth and took his place behind the drum kit. "Good job we've played this twice a day for the last few weeks," he said as he extinguished his cigarette and picked up his sticks. 

Even so there were false starts galore, making Brian and the producers anxious, but finally they got a clean take. To everyone's astonishment, they needed only one further take for a vocal overdub that met Felgen's standards. John cried, "Hallelujah, it's a miracle!" 

"That's it, gentlemen - and with two hours to spare." Neil and Mal came out of the booth and started to move the drum kit, but Paul stopped them.

"Not quite yet, guys." He darted a look at Ringo, who grinned and gave him the thumbs-up sign. "I've got something. I worked on it last night." 

John opened his mouth, closed it again, and folded his arms. "That's what the guitar is for?" George asked.

"Yep." Paul took it out of the case and moved a stool near Ringo's kit. He played a C and let it vibrate in the air for a moment before he burst into song. 

_Can't buy me love, love._  
_Can't buy me love._

As they'd rehearsed the night before in between bottles of wine, Ringo came in and started a steady accompaniment as only he could. _  
_

_I'll buy you a diamond ring, my friend, if it makes you feel all right._  
_I'll get you anything, my friend, if it makes you feel all right,_  
_'Cause I don't care too much for money -_  
_Money can't buy me love.  
_

Paul looked up and saw George's head bobbing along. He was afraid to look at John - his hand slipped slightly and he had to take another try at the chord - but when he did, he saw the look of admiration he'd been missing for so long. 

_I'll give you all I've got to give, if you say you'll love me too._  
_I may not have a lot to give, but what I got I'll give to you._  
_I don't care too much for money -_  
_Money can't buy me love.  
_

Everyone was watching, smiling, clapping along. Paul felt the old electricity flowing through him again. It wasn't the workaday high he got onstage, performing the same songs over and over. This was the sheer joy of a new creation coming to life under his hands, through his lips, and he let out a high-pitched scream of delight. 

_Say you don't need no diamond ring, and I'll be satisfied._  
_Tell me that you want the kind of things that money just can't buy._  
_I don't care too much for money -_  
_Money can't buy me love._

"I forgot to say - there'll be a guitar break before that last bit," Paul called out to George, whose beaming smile lit up the room.

_Can't buy me love, love._  
_Love, love._  
_Can't buy me love...ohhhh...  
_

He played the final chord to thunderous applause. "Isn't it great?" Ringo asked before the last of the sound had even died out. 

"I love it!"  
"Did you really write that just yesterday?"  
"Fabulous, Paulie!"  
"Well done!"

Paul rose from the stool and walked over to where John was standing next to an amplifier. All this adulation was wonderful, and he was relieved to see nothing but affection in Brian's eyes. But this was for John, about John, and he needed to know...

"So, Macca," John said evenly, but with a twinkle in his dark eyes, "where you been hiding that one?" 

John might as well have handed him the Earth on a plate. 

Before Paul could trust his voice enough to answer, John had moved away from him and was prodding George Martin in the arm. "You said we had time to spare - what're we waiting for? Let's get this on tape." 

"You have two shows to do today, and your voices will--" began Brian, but Ringo cut him off. 

"C'mon, Eppy, we'll just do the backing, how about that? Leave the vocal and George's solo for another time. But we should strike while the iron's hot, don't you think?" 

Paul knew they had to look like four toddlers begging to stay up past their bedtimes, and their shouts of glee when George Martin signaled to Norman did little to dispel the image. John grabbed their German lyric sheets and began scribbling chord changes while Paul explained what he would do on the bass. "I go up, this little figure that repeats, while the melody goes down, and you're off the beat like so..." 

George stared down at his guitar, his fingers already forming the chord progression. John just stared at Paul for a moment, as if he didn't quite recognize him, then he picked up his own guitar and started to play. 

Felgen was standing in the corner, his mouth wide open, as the Beatles did four rollicking takes, each more energetic than the last, as if they'd known this piece all their lives. 

*** 

The vitality lasted through the two shows at the Olympia. They were always good, but this was a remarkable display of the dynamism created when all four of them were "on." 

John even remembered the lyrics to "Dizzy Miss Lizzy." 

They removed their stage makeup in record time, still singing, and started making plans for the evening. "Club Eve," George said as he dabbed at a particularly thick glob of mascara in the corner of his eye. "That's where Derek took me the first night we were here. It was great, we should all go." 

"I'm in," Ringo immediately answered. "Too much sittin' around makes me grumpy. How 'bout you two?" 

Paul, high off performance adrenaline, was about to agree when he felt John's hand on his wrist. He stared at John and saw the request form in his eyes, the one he couldn't bring his lips to say: _Tell them no.  
_

Rubbing his face with a wet flannel so no one could read his expression, Paul sighed. "Just don't have it in me tonight, lads, sorry." 

If George suspected subterfuge, he didn't show it. He turned to John. "You coming with, John?" 

"Best not." John's voice was cool, unconcerned, but he was still turned toward Paul. "Gotta keep this one writing, since he produced such a good one." 

"Suit yourselves." Ringo stood up as he checked his hair in the mirror. "C'mon, George, leave the old men to themselves." 

They didn't say anything to one another as they got into a taxi and went back to the hotel. Paul managed to wave at the fans, John signed a few autographs, and then they were escorted to the lift in peace. 

"You have your key?" asked John. 

"Have you EVER had yours?" 

John shook his head, chuckling. "How well you know me." 

Frowning, Paul dug out his room key and opened the door. The maids had done a great job clearing out the wreckage of the last day, and the sitting room was clean and comfortable. With a luxurious sigh, Paul sat down in his favourite chair and lit a cigarette. "I think there's some red left over from last night," he told John, waving in the direction of a lone bottle and two glasses. 

John poured a glass for each of them and brought one over to Paul. "That really is a good song," he said as he gave Paul his glass and sneaked a cigarette out of the packet on the table. 

"Are you saying that because you needed my key, my booze, and my ciggies?" Paul responded archly. 

"No." John lit his cigarette and sagged onto the sofa. "I said it because I need you, and I've been a bastard." 

Even as John wilted further into the cushions, Paul sat up straighter, at full attention. His heartbeat picked up and his mouth was dry. 

"Or so George was telling me," John added with a lift of his eyebrows. "Gave me quite the tongue-lashing last night, when he wasn't 'dancing' with Estelle." He tried to blow a smoke ring, but it was ragged and he dispersed the cloud with a graceful gesture. 

Paul watched the movements of John's lithe hand. He wished that it could be that easy to wipe away all the mistakes of their lives, with just a wave of the hand. "What else did George tell you?" he asked, even though he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. 

"Oh, this and that, this and that." Paul could hear the anxiety in John's voice, no matter how brightly he spoke. "Along the lines of 'explain yourself,' only with naughty words." 

"John, you don't have to--" 

"Yeah. I do, actually." John adjusted his long body so that he was facing Paul. His eyes were sober. "I know you were looking forward to a repeat of the last time we came here, and I know I fucked it up beyond recognition."

Paul had nothing useful to say and decided just to nod.

"It's just..." he trailed off. "It's not because of Brian, if that's what you're thinking." 

"It wasn't, but thanks for reminding me that it's a possibility." 

"Paul, no. I mean, I'm worried about him, but I'm worried about the whole group. We're like an atom bomb about to go off. When the press builds you up they way they're doing to us, it's because they're waiting to knock us right back down again." He took a long sip of his wine. "I'm not sure I'd mind going back, if it meant getting out of these suits and being able to hear meself play when I'm onstage. But what about Ritchie and George? What about YOU?" 

"I don't understand." 

"C'mon, Paul, don't be dim." John sat up and leaned forward until his knees almost touched Paul's. "I want you to be with me every step of the way. It's like...like...I don't know how to walk, because you're the other leg and alone I just hop. And all this - the fans, the fancy hotels, the recording contracts - it's more than I expected. More than I can cope with." He took in a breath. "I'm scared, Paulie." 

Paul fumbled his cigarette and glass to the end table and took John's hands in his. They were cold, and the fingers shook with nerves. "I figured that out. Eventually." John blinked up at him. "But before I did, I was confused and in pain, and it was you doing it to me. My best mate. You've no idea how that felt." 

John wrapped his fingers around Paul's wrists. "I'm a bastard, and I'm stupid because I thought you were just lonely and that Jane would help, so I dragged HER into this disaster as well." He looked down at the bracelet. "George told me what happened that night." 

"That bit, at least, isn't your fault." He adjusted the bracelet so that his name was on top of his wrist. "Daft idea, these, as if you can't remember your name unless it's engraved on you." 

"Paul..." 

"I remember her giving it to me at the party. It must've cost a packet. My dad thought it was a lovely gesture but the aunties were scandalized. 'You don't give jewelry as a gift to a man unless you're trying to buy his love.' They clucked like chickens and I thought it was the worst thing that could happen until you decided to flatten Bob Wooler." He shook his head, the memory chaotic but also a little warm. "Jane thought you were a madman." 

"She's not wrong." 

"Why'd you tell her? What were you trying to do, break us up?" 

"Not exactly." John's nose wrinkled as he thought. "It's complicated. You know that Brian went mad when he found out Cyn was pregnant. But later on, when he figured out about us, he changed his mind, said it would keep the nosy Nellies off our track if I had a wife and baby. But you were alone out there, and Christ, Paul, the way you look at me sometimes..." He sniffed and shook his head. "I was safe. I wanted you to be safe, too, so I thought Jane would be agreeable. But I swear, I didn't know just how sheltered she was! She just looked at me the whole time, as if I'd set God Almighty on fire and was roasting a Sunday joint over Him." 

"Now she knows, and I know she knows, and we're all so fucking knowledgeable." Paul stubbed out the cigarette just as the filter started to catch fire. 

"You gonna marry her?"

Paul couldn't tell if John were worried or hopeful. "Probably. Someday." He gave John a baleful glare. "But you need to stop telling her things - the look on her face when she opened the box and it wasn't a ring..." 

"Yeah, Ringo filled me in on that." He took a last drag on his cigarette and put it out next to Paul's. "I'm thinking that we should probably talk to each other rather than about each other." 

"That's why you're the leader, Johnny." He drained the glass to the last drop of wine and placed it next to the ashtray before standing up to stretch. Perhaps the alcohol would give him a chance for the good night's sleep he longed for. 

The other thing he longed for was right in front of him, eyes lowered. "I'm glad we're here," John whispered. He stood up and offered his hand to Paul, who took it gently. "I know I wasn't acting like it, before now, but I really am glad we're in Paris. Our Paris." He brought Paul's hand to his lips and kissed the palm. "Can we go back?" he asked in a rush of breath. 

The cascade of memories - their first kiss, the first time they made love, the first time John told Paul how long he'd loved him - almost drowned him. He had to struggle to take in a breath, to save himself. 

"I think," he murmured, and it was so, so hard to look into John's eager, hopeful eyes, "that we'd better go back to before Paris." 

He pulled his hand away from John's, slowly, trying to memorize the feel of the rough fingertips against his knuckles, trying to keep his composure when John's face drained of colour, trying not to weep as he went into his bedroom and closed the door. 


	11. 30 January, 1964

Paul approached the daily breakfast meeting with apprehension. Even though he had slept well, he still dreaded facing John.

It was a relief to find Brian alone in his suite, smiling warmly at him. "You're not early - I sent the others away so we could have some privacy." He patted the chair next to his at the table.

For an instant, Paul's lurching heart and racing mind told him that John wanted him fired, out of the group, sent packing at once. He must have gone terribly pale because Brian stood up and patted him on the shoulder. "Nothing bad's going to happen. I promise. Sit down, have something to eat." He started scooping eggs and sausages onto the empty plate in front of Paul. "Let me play Jewish mother for you. Just relax and eat - I bet you've lost half a stone on this trip."

Not since the first terrible morning had Paul been less hungry, but under Brian's watchful eye he had no choice but to tuck in. Brian gave him an encouraging smile and started to speak again. "George is with Mal and Neil. John spent the night in Ringo's room."

Paul almost dropped his fork. He was surprised that he didn't hear John leave. "Why?"

"He didn't think he could trust himself not to barge into your bedroom and beg you to reconsider. Ringo came by a while ago to say that John finally fell asleep around four this morning and that we shouldn't wake him."

"Oh." Paul shoved some egg around in figure eights. His spirits drooped even further.

Brian leaned over him and added more food to his plate. "Keep eating. Your father won't trust me again if you come home as thin and pale as you are right now." He served himself and spent a few minutes eating his own food whilst keeping an eye on Paul. He poured some tea into Paul's cup. "I want to apologise, Paul."

Once again, Paul found his fork too loose in his grip. "What...why?"

"I had a part in the events of the last two weeks. Yes, I did warn John to take extra care not to expose the relationship between the two of you, but I had no idea he would overreact the way he did. It wasn't my intent to have him push you away entirely." His eyes were soft, earnest. "I hope you can forgive me."

Paul swallowed a mouthful of sausage. The spice went to his head, or perhaps he was just tired and confused. "There's nothing to forgive. John's like that - he takes an idea and races around with it, like a kid flying a kite...until he runs out of string." He gave Brian a rueful grin. "And I always take everything way too personally, so when it really was personal, I overreacted just as much as John. I said things to you the other night..." Why was it so hard to apologise? Why did putting his hat in his hand always feel as if it burned? He took a deep breath. "...and they were horrible, and I didn't mean them. So I hope you can forgive me, too."

Brian's strong grip on Paul's arm was a relief. "Of course I do. Always."

They ate quickly and quietly, Brian having to get up several times to take phone calls. Paul snuck a piece of toast from Brian's plate, ate it, and started for the door with more energy than he'd felt in days.

"Just a moment," Brian said to the person on the telephone. He covered the mouthpiece. "Paul, I know you're going to talk to John later, and you'll work things out one way or another. I just wanted to say that, no matter what you decide, I'll always protect you."

The sudden rush of tears was a surprise, but they were tears of gratitude. Paul blinked a few times, biting his lip until he could control himself, and mouthed "thank you" as he left the room.

He was taken aback to see Mal leaving Paul and John's suite with a heap of clothing in his arms. "I need to collect laundry," he explained a bit too breezily. "Good job we've all got our names in our collars, like good campers, or this would be a terrible headache to sort. George says thanks for lending him yours the other night, by the way."

"He's welcome." Curious, Paul stopped to let Mal pass him and peered at the pile of shirts and trousers. He saw a flash of silver and realized that the gift box John had left him was in Mal's hand as well, partially concealed under John's stage suit.

Of course John would want it back, Paul reasoned with himself. Nonetheless, a dull ache started to spread through his chest.

When he entered the room he left the door slightly ajar, just in case...in case of what, he wasn't able to articulate. He kicked off his shoes and reached for his guitar, tuning it lovingly. He'd sounded a little out of practice at the studio yesterday, so he forced himself to concentrate on his technique. Little snatches of Bach flew through his mind and flowed out onto the strings through his fingers. He might have lost his heart, but at least he had his music.

After half an hour's practice he was just starting to feel the familiar ache across the back of his right hand when George tapped on the door. He stuck both his head and guitar in the opening. "Mind if I sit in?"

"Please." Paul motioned toward the chair opposite his but George sat in his preferred position on the floor, his long legs folding neatly beneath him. He picked up the Bach where Paul left off. "Haven't played this in donkey's years," he said with a self-deprecating grin, but after a few moments the melody and countermelody came alive.

He was good. Sometimes Paul forgot what a fine musician George was. "That's grand," he said, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. "You always did that ten times better than me."

"Wasn't sure you remembered." George's tone was even, but Paul knew that George's third-place position in the group was a sore spot.

"I forget a lot of stuff." Paul set the guitar aside and ducked his head so he could look into George's dark eyes. "But the important things always come back to me."

A flush rose over George's cheeks the way it always did when he got a compliment. He played a few more bars, very deliberately not facing Paul. "Mal's gone to take care of the dry cleaning and Brian's on the phone with the Americans, again." To Paul's unspoken question, he replied, "John went on an errand with Neil and Ringo."

No doubt the errand was to return Paul's gift to Cartier, but since Paul didn't want to embarrass George he just mumbled, "Nice day for it," and went back to his guitar.

"He's devastated."

Paul hit a sour note. He glared at his fingers for betraying him. "Who is?" he inquired, knowing he sounded like an idiot.

George, rolling his eyes, elaborated. "John. He's devastated."

"He can get in line behind me." Paul realized that George was playing something different, a dirge-slow version of "She Loves You." It wasn't particularly subtle. Paul changed the subject. "How's Estelle?"

"She's fine, thanks." The look George gave him plainly said, _If that's how you're gonna be_ , but for several moments he played in silence before he turned his attention to the fretboard and started to talk again. "I was just thinking about something my mum once said to me. I was angry with a good mate and told her I'd never speak to him again. But Mum, she sat me down and said, 'Son, don't ever burn a bridge when you're standin' on it - you can't go forward, you can't go backward, and you'll probably drown.' So I forgave him, the silly sod, and he did me a good turn not long after." George switched to the opening bars of "Raunchy" and stared meaningfully at Paul.

Oh.  
  
Paul put the guitar down once more and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "What are you trying to say, George?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm the Quiet One, remember?" George unfolded himself, stretched, then shouldered his guitar. He looked down at his shoes as if collecting his thoughts, then turned the full force of his gaze on Paul. "Just do it quickly, for God's sake. Put us all out of our misery."

Paul nodded, watching as George headed out the door and then turned back to wink at him and add, "Especially you."

***

_He said he had the mis'ry but he got a lot of fun..._

Paul had been determined to give a great show. Two great shows, in fact, and he was glad to do the last song at the top of his lungs. Ringo kept splendid time behind him, George was wailing on the guitar, and John...and John...

_Compartmentalise._

He finished with a flourish. They had been outstanding tonight, fresh off the news that "Please Please Me" had hit number one in the USA. They took their bows and ran back toward the dressing room.

Neil had escorted John directly from the "errand" to the Olympia, so Paul hadn't had a chance to exchange more than a few performance-related words with him. What he had endured instead were endless hours of troubled, pleading looks from George and Ringo.

He watched John rubbing away the stage makeup, revealing the same dark circles Paul had seen under his own eyes ever since they came to Paris. Now they had a matched set, and they grimaced when their glances met in the mirror.

"Two black-eyed peas in a pod," John muttered under his breath. Paul chuckled, his voice tense and high and tired.

"You should turn in early," Paul declared firmly.

"Might just do that." John got up abruptly, shaking the flimsy makeup table they all shared. "Neil's still got the car we used this afternoon. He's gonna take me to the hotel now."

Paul nodded. He had felt trepidation about an awkwardly silent taxi ride, so this was a stay of execution. "See you when I get back, then," he said, trying not to make it a question.

There was no more time for questions. He had made his decision.

John gave him a tight, ironic smile. "I'll wait up."

***

John was true to his word, pacing the sitting room when Paul entered. He had taken off his jacket and tie so Paul did likewise, laying them down carefully across the back of the chair where John had tossed his in a disorderly mound.

"John--"  
"Paul--"

John ran his hand through his hair. He was looking at the lid of the piano, and Paul followed his line of sight. The long, silver box was there, the one Mal had spirited out of the room earlier.

Bewildered, Paul cocked his head.

"I'm not good with words," John began, and Paul barked out a disbelieving laugh. "Not the kind you have to say aloud, at any rate." He walked over to the piano, picked up the box, and returned it to Paul. "I know you didn't want this--"

"It wasn't that, I just--"  
"But it meant--"

Of course they were talking over one another. John motioned for Paul to go first. He swallowed hard. "I thought you took it back."

"No, I had Mal grab it when he went to get your clothes. I wanted to get it engraved."

Paul slid the ribbon aside and opened the box. It contained a handsome gold watch with a leather band, the type that Paul had coveted for ages. "God, John, thank you." He turned it over to read the engraving. There were two words:

_I fell._

"I...I don't understand..."

John rocked from one foot to the other, the way he always did when he was flustered. "It's a song I've been working on. 'If I Fell.' It's not finished."

Paul had never seen him look so desperate, so contrite. "Will you sing it to me?" he asked, stepping forward so John could fasten the watch on his arm.

John's voice, even unaccompanied and wavering with fatigue and sorrow, was a thing of absolute beauty.

 _If I fell in love with you,_  
_Would you promise to be true?_

He paused, looking up from Paul's wrist to his face.. "I haven't done the next two lines yet, but there's a verse."

 _If I give my heart to you,_  
_I must be sure_  
_From the very start,_  
_That you would love me more than her._

There it was - all of John's insecurity, filtered through what they had done to one another. Paul might regret it later, but now all he could do was fold John in his arms and hold him close. John's body went rigid for an instant and Paul feared being pushed away, but after a pause and a sigh, John's voice sang longingly in his ear.

 _If I trust in you,_  
_Oh, please don't run and hide._

No more hiding, Paul thought as he kissed the top of John's head.

 _If I love you too,_  
_Oh, please don't hurt my pride like her..._

"I think that's supposed to be 'she.'"  
"Shut up and listen."

_'Cause I couldn't stand the pain..._

"I'm so sorry, Johnny."  
"Shut up and LISTEN!"

 _And I would be sad if our new love_  
_Was in vain..._

John stopped. "That's as far as I've gotten." He pulled away, his whole body vibrating with anxious expectation.

"It's stunning," Paul declared breathlessly.

"It's about you. I know you won't - can't - give your heart away again without being certain of me, not after what I just pulled. So I wanted to tell you." He breathed in and out a few times, his eyes shimmering. "I already fell, Paul."

"I fell right with you," Paul answered, then he guided John's face closer to his and kissed his softly parted lips.

John kissed him back.

Dizzy, gleeful, Paul pushed aside any lingering fears. He ran his fingers through John's hair, across his cheeks, down the length of his throat, anywhere he could touch. He could feel John's lips turning up in a smile.

"What?" Paul asked. His voice was warm with desire.

"The last time I was that scared to kiss you," John said quietly, pulling back and running his hands up and down Paul's arms, "was the very first time. In Paris. 'Member?"

They had been caught in an unexpected thunderstorm. They were soaked through by the time they got back to their cheap little room, their waterlogged jeans clinging to their legs when they tried to step out of them. John had tripped and fallen into Paul's arms.

Paul held him now they way he had then, smiling fondly. "I kept you from landing on your ass, and you found a novel way to thank me."

"God knows where I got the nerve."

"God knows why you waited so long."

They laughed a little as they kissed again, still a bit tentatively but with a familiar, growing hunger that made Paul want to clasp John tightly and never, ever let him go again.

Of course there were many, many things to be settled between them, but they could keep. Right now, Paul was content just to be in his Paris - THEIR Paris - with John in his arms.

Paul felt the same giddy shyness from three years before as he took John by the hand and silently led him to the bedroom. They went to the window, lost in thought, letting the moonlight bathe them as they looked at the boulevard below.

Their Paris.

"Brian says we have tomorrow morning and afternoon off, no interviews or anything." John pillowed his cheek in Paul's hair.

Paul snaked an arm around John's waist, his fingers playing an unknown tune on his hipbone. "Luxury," he sighed. "All of Paris at our feet and enough time to enjoy the day. How do you want to spend it?" He almost regretted those last words, the ones he'd asked John in a room very unlike this one, when they were so impossibly young.

There was no need for regret.

"I remember that question, Paulie." With his most appealing smile, John caressed Paul's shoulders, pushed him gently backwards, and lowered him to the mattress. "Ask me again."

Paul felt light, as if he would just float away were it not for John's strong, loving hands. "How do you want to spend it?" he asked.

"In bed," John replied as he wrapped his arms around Paul and rolled him over into a shaft of silver Parisian moonlight.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is fiction but built on the foundation of the following events:
> 
> October, 1961  
> *John took Paul on a trip with the £100 he got for his 21st birthday. They were supposed to go to Spain but stopped in Paris.
> 
> 1964:  
> 14 January  
> *John, Paul, George, Brian, and Mal flew from London Airport to Le Bourget in Paris.  
> *Ringo and Neil were stuck in Liverpool due to fog.  
> *Their hotel was the George V, where John stayed with Cynthia on their "babymoon."  
> *Brian arranged for a piano to be placed in John and Paul's suite. It was a Knight, a well-known British brand.  
> *John, Paul, and George walked along the Champs-Élysées that afternoon and were photographed looking at art, buying postcards, taking pictures of one another, and having a soda at a round table.  
> *Brian invited Bruno Coquatrix of the Olympia Theatre and another man from the Odeon record label to visit the group. The Beatles never learned his name and referred to him as "Monseiur Odeon" for the rest of the trip.  
> *Derek Taylor took George to "Club Eve."  
> *George and Estelle Bennett of the Ronettes dated on and off until George and Pattie met.
> 
> 15 January  
> *Ringo and Neil arrived in time for a warm-up concert at the Cinèma Cyrano in Versailles.  
> *They had attempted to meet Brigitte Bardot, but she was in Brazil at the time. Her management sent a box of chocolates and a note saying she hoped the sweets would make up for the disappointment.
> 
> 16 January  
> *George Martin arrived in Paris to record some of the concerts and oversee the German versions of "She Loves You" and "I Want To Hold Your Hand" that were requested by EMI's German label.  
> *The Beatles posed outside the Olympia theatre, in front of posters of themselves and singers Trini Lopez and Sylvie Vartan.  
> *Four radio stations attempted to plug into the Beatles' sound system, with the result that the power went out three times.  
> *Several journalists, all claiming "exclusive" access to the group, got into a fistfight that spread onto the stage. Paul pleaded for calm, and the battling writers almost broke George's guitar. Afterwards, the Beatles demanded that no one but their own crew be allowed backstage.  
> *When they got back to the George V, Brian announced that "I Want to Hold Your Hand" had reached #1 in the USA. The piggyback rides were photographed, possibly by Ringo.  
> *George Martin booked them into a weird restaurant to celebrate. The bread was shaped like penises, soup was served in chamber pots, and waiters tied garters around women's legs. There is a photo of the group at the table where Brian has a chamber pot on his head.  
> *Brian told them that a Detroit promoter offered $10,000 for a single performance.  
> *On the way back to the hotel, John offered Neil $2000 to jump into the Seine. Neil declined.
> 
> 20 January  
> *Harry Benson photographed the Beatles lying on the floor of John and Paul's room, reading fan letters.  
> *Brian told them that Capitol records finally released "Meet the Beatles." VeeJay had done a bastardized version earlier with one of Astrid's photos on the label - colorized and flipped!  
> *The Beatles did an interview with French singer/personality Robert Marcy on the radio.  
> *That night, Harry Benson asked if they'd stage a pillow fight. John said they'd look like idiots, but moments later he hit Paul with a pillow and the fight began.
> 
> 21 January  
> *This was one of two days off the Beatles had during the Paris residency. 
> 
> 26 January  
> *Paul wrote "One and One is Two" on 22 January.  
> *The next day, John and Paul recorded the song in their bathroom. When they got to the end, John said "Billy J. (Kramer) is finished when he records this."
> 
> 27 January  
> *The Beatles were scheduled to record the German versions of "I Want To Hold Your Hand" and "She Loves You" today. They decided not to go and did not show up. Neil had to take the angry phone call from George Martin. The scene where George Martin and Otto Demmler come to the suite and see the little tea party is taken nearly verbatim from Martin's autobiography. He did not mention who put the lampshade on his head, but I assume it was John. ;)
> 
> 28 January  
> *This was the second of the two days the Beatles had off in Paris.  
> *John and George flew to London to attend Phil Spector's party.
> 
> 29 January  
> *Belgian singer Camillo Felgen did the translations and helped with pronunciation.  
> *"I Want to Hold Your Hand" took 11 takes. The backing track to "She Loves You" had been accidentally wiped and needed 13 takes to re-do. They had two hours left so they recorded the backing track of "Can't Buy Me Love" in four takes.
> 
> 30 January  
> *"Please Please Me" hit #1 on the US charts.


End file.
